


Bloodguilt

by moffnat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety Disorder, Attempted Murder, Blood and Violence, Consensual Underage Sex, Corruption, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Gen, HOLY CRAP this is a lot i'm just gonna update from my grave bye, Happy Murder Family, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Multiple, Past Rape/Non-con, Politics, Rape Recovery, Redemption, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sibling Bonding, Strong Female Characters, lmao @ happy murder family but like...it's kinda real, wow holy fuck where do i START with this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 176,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7509232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/pseuds/moffnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b><a href="http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/judaica/ejud_0002_0003_0_03145.html">BLOODGUILT</a></b> (n); the Judaic concept of punishment for committing unlawful murder. Innocent blood pollutes the earth and is rejected, hanging over the head of the slayer until God or mankind reaps judgment upon them.</p><p>Modern AU. Crime and scandal. Petyr/Sansa and platonic Jon & Arya. When Lord Chief Justice Ned Stark dies in a freak accident and his family burns in their home, Sansa believes she is all that remains. Taken hostage by Roose Bolton in attempt to claim her father’s inheritance, Sansa flees, knowing there is justice to be found somewhere in what's left of the world that betrayed her. Little does she know, she is not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Homeless Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * For the love of God and all things holy, **please read the tags.** This fic deals with some heavy topics that might not be for everyone. (But we're quite the sinful fandom, so it shouldn't be a problem for most of you. Just a warning.)  
> 
> * The three POV's are Sansa, Petyr and Arya. The Arya & Jon bromance is _very_ important, so don't skip Arya's chapters just to get back to the sin!  
> 
> * This fic frequently mentions rape and deals partially with the ups and downs of rape recovery. Read at your own risk.  
> 
> * I kept Mayana from [Run Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7153610/chapters/16241588). There's like, 0.2 characters of color in this series, so I'm bringing my own. Deal.  
> 
> * The mentions of Judaism, Catholicism and Islam in this story are **not** meant to be disrespectful in any way, shape or form. This was merely a part of my interpretation of ASoIAF canon into the modern world. All modern references, political standings, pop culture references and real-world issues are **researched** before I even consider adding them to the story, so be sure to call me out if I fuck up royally.  
> 
> * Listen. **This is a wild ride.** I've got all sorts of bullshit headed your way, BE PREPARED SINNERS, but as always I don't believe in fic that has a tragic ending, so it'll all pay off. Shhhhh. Trust me. *pets your face*  
> 
> * This story gradually progresses. It's an uphill climb that's slow and steady, so it may seem awkward at first, but I paced it this way on purpose. The shit will hit the fan, trust me. And when it does, you'll wish it hadn't.  
> 
> * I'm putting a lot more effort than usual into this so I really hope the response is enthusiastic. Make sure to keep up with the endnotes for updates. Enjoy!
> 
>   
>  **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[heir to winterfell; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltNrxu-nQ80)] ◆ [[sweet dreams; marilyn manson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-9YBYxOdS8)]

  
**15 OCTOBER, 2016**

Iron bars were her greatest obstacle. There were thirteen in total, brand new without a speck of rust, screwed into the frame of her window with metal hinges. Sansa made them her focal point whenever Ramsay came to use her. Her mind would fall quiet, sharp and blank all at once, making iron bars her anchor for however long he was there. In her dreams, Sansa could tear apart the steel frame and climb out to freedom like an animal, but reality was not so forgiving. Ramsay was nothing if not persistent, and he came to her every night to leave bruises and a cracked soul behind.

Sansa Stark was not so easily broken. 

 _Those bars_ , Sansa thought repeatedly.  _Break them and I’m free. Break them and I’m gone._  She said it every night in her mind, like a prayer.  _Break the bars. Break the bars. Break the bars._

The first few weeks in captivity were the worst. Ramsay believed his prison too strong for her to withstand, and fear was his ally. The humiliation of another human being gave him pride, as much as the act of assault itself, but Sansa took advantage of his oversights. The moment Ramsay’s father came and spoke to her alone, Sansa made every detail of her suffering known to him. He wasn’t as ruthless as his crazed son. It earned her free reign over the manor, at least. She could handle being followed by paid security detail. If it gave her means to craft an escape, it was worth the constant supervision.

Three months of lost time chipped away at her heart. But true to her name, she did not break. She kept face when it was appropriate, submitted to captivity, and let Ramsay have his way with her. Misery loved company, after all. And at the end of every day, she muttered her prayer through gritted teeth to the darkness.

_Break the bars._

Her opportunity came when Ramsay broke the kitchen sink. He’d shoved someone’s arm down the disposal and the blades had broken on the bone, causing the pipes to clog. Sansa could see the blood as she poked her head into the kitchen from the outer hall. Scarlet stained a porcelain sink with several chunks of bone and skin, but something more important caught her eye. A toolbox filled with expensive hardware sat atop the counter. Ramsay’s lower half stuck out from under the plumbing, and she heard his muttered curses as he struggled with a wrench. His father had likely ordered him to fix his mistake. It was all she could do not to steal a hammer and run.

“What are you doing?” asked Sansa as she stepped into the kitchen.

Ramsay sighed. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Fixing a sink.”

“Yes. I’m fixing a sink.” His words were slow and deliberate, as though he thought she couldn’t understand. Sansa walked deeper into the kitchen and wrung her hands, eyeing the toolbox again. _Screwdriver,_ she thought.  _Crosshair. Hideable._  She reached for a glass from a nearby cabinet and poured herself some water, scanning the tools sidelong.

The handle of her prize stuck out from the edge of the box. A screwdriver, just like she needed. Sansa took a drink _. I’ll pay for this,_ she thought.  _Ramsay will hurt me._ But there was nothing Sansa could face now that she hadn’t faced before. Her life was the only thing left to lose, and what value was that on its own? She took a deep breath. “Do you need all of those tools to fix a sink?”

Ramsay groaned in annoyance. “No.”

“My brother broke the sink once.” Sansa walked over to the toolbox and leaned against the counter, careful not to tip off the Bolton personnel watching her at the door. “Father taught him how to fix it. Or tried to. Jon and Robb ended up playing with two hammers and walked away with broken fingers and tears.”

“How very fascinating,” shot Ramsay.

Sansa gathered her willpower and set her glass down on the counter. “It doesn’t look all that hard. Maybe I could help—”

She stepped forward, pushing her arm on the edge of the toolbox. It fell to the floor with a ringing clatter that echoed from the walls. Sansa faked a gasp of terror. “Ramsay I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it was an accident! I was trying to—”

“Why did you do that?” Her nightmare crawled out from under the sink, clutching a wrench she feared he would beat her with. It wouldn't be the first time. Ramsay’s tone was calm and collected, but Sansa knew better than to think he was without rage. His face was warped with it. “You’ve damaged my father’s tools. Do you know how much they cost?”

“A lot,” Sansa guessed. She swallowed the lump in her throat and kept her eyes on Ramsay’s dark ones. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”  _He wants my tears,_  she thought, so Sansa provided. It was incredibly easy to cry on command. “Please, Ramsay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to help you, please.”

Ramsay smiled as if his forgiveness was genuine. “That’s enough now, Sansa. I do hate to see you unhappy.” He cupped her cheek, making her nauseous. “Accidents happen, don’t they? Clean it up. And I’ll make sure every damaged item comes out of your dead daddy’s inheritance.”

Sansa shivered when his lips met hers. By some miracle, they were not there for long. Ramsay pulled away and moved under the broken sink again, recommencing his work and leaving Sansa to pick up the mess she’d made. She scrambled to the floor like the desperate girl she was, cleaning up the tools in avoidance of his wrath. She couldn’t run to freedom if he broke her ribs.

The red handle of the screwdriver stuck out to her.  _There it is._ Sansa snatched the tool before anyone could see. She hid it in her jacket sleeve and put the others back in their place, returning the toolbox to the counter. “Take her back to her room,” said Ramsay. “She’s had enough free time for the day. If she's good, I might even let her eat tonight.”

Sansa quietly obeyed. She had what she came for, and baiting her with food was useless now. Bolton personnel led her down the hallway of the east wing and back to the bedroom Ramsay kept her in, with its barred window and bland colors. The door was closed and locked behind her.

Sansa gave a heavy sigh of relief. She placed a hand over her beating heart, closed her eyes, and steadied her breath until she calmed.

In.

Out.

In.

Sansa opened her eyes. She couldn't waste any more time. It was already 6:30, Ramsay would come for her soon. She placed the screwdriver on the table, turned on the TV for extra noise and began packing a light bag. Only the essentials. Two spare changes of clothes, her childhood diary, her mother’s rosary, Rickon’s dreidel from the last Hanukkah. Hygiene products. A hairbrush, a small blanket, two-hundred pounds she’d stashed away to pay for a bus ticket and food. Her wallet. Extra socks.  _Always keep warm,_ she could hear her father say.  _Winter is coming._ Sansa stripped from her rich clothes—no gift from the Boltons would come with her—and changed into jeans and one of Robb’s Oxford sweaters. She curbed the pain of her brother’s memory with happy ones; the look on his face when he’d gotten his acceptance letter, the way he smiled at Talisa on their wedding day, how he’d hold her face and tell her there was nothing to be afraid of.

_Wherever you are, Robb, I need your bravery now._

Sansa grabbed the screwdriver and stood on the bed to reach the hinges of those damned iron bars, working at them quickly. Her life depended on it. She was careful when the steel began to give, unscrewing them with speed and placing the full set down on the mattress. They were heavier than she expected and her arms ached when she let them go, but the sight of her window, open and clean with an unimpeded view of the trees filled her with a sense of triumph.

The bars were broken at last.

Sansa snatched her bag and opened the window glass, letting the coolness of an autumn breeze calm her nerves. She glanced around outside for passing security before dropping her bag down to the bushes below. It was a two-story fall to the ground, and Sansa would have to sprint across the gardens from there to make it to the forest for cover. Roose would send his men after her and Ramsay would release the hounds, but Sansa had studied them enough to know how to thwart them. For the first time in weeks, she said a prayer to the skies, clutching the Star of David pendant around her neck as if it would force God to listen. “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave me too.”

On the count of three, she jumped from the windowsill.

Sansa met the ground hard. She bit back her cries and clutched her side, knowing she’d made bruises to accompany the others, but she couldn’t stop to assess them. Sansa scrambled to her feet and ran for the outer gate. She could slip through those bars easily enough, assuming the snipers on the roof didn’t shoot her down before she got there. It was a race against time, now. Against Roose Bolton and his underestimation of the last living Stark.

In another life, Sansa had loved running, helping Bran train for track or Jon keep up his routine for the Night’s Watch. But running for her life was different. Every cell in her body focused on speed. Sansa ran with a prayer in every step, begging God or the Holy Mother or whoever listened for enough strength to reach the outer fence. She heard nothing but the whistle of the wind and the thunder of her feet pounding into the grass. Shouts and barking dogs were swallowed by her steady breathing. In, out. In, out. Her legs strained and her core ached, feeling all three months of her constant captivity, but adrenaline pulled her through until she reached the perimeter of the Bolton property. She slipped through the bars and broke free into the shelter of the forest and coming nightfall.

Sansa didn’t stop running, not until she reached an abandoned watch post a half-mile from the manor. She threw open the door, breath heavy with exhaustion, and flipped on the lights. _Gun,_ she thought. _There has to be one here._ She opened every drawer in search of a weapon, finding nothing but a map and a few expired granola bars. She smiled at the sight of food and shoved them in her backpack for later. She also found a first aid kit and took the ibuprofen from it, along with antiseptic cream and Band-Aids, just in case.

Sansa opened the final drawer. A handgun sat within. Sansa had never held one before, never learned how to load and fire, but there would be time to figure it out. She stashed the gun and the bullets in her bag to tamper with when she was safe. Whenever that would be.

“Sansa,” said a small voice. She whirled around. Theon Greyjoy stood in the doorway, a rifle strapped around his armored body. His mouth wore a deep frown. “Sansa, please. You’re not going to survive out there.”

“I’m not going to survive here, either.” Her voice was stern. “They want my inheritance, Theon. They don’t care about me. Once I’m of age and marry Ramsay, they’ll have everything. I’ll be expendable.” Her voice began to shake. “You know what he does to me.”

“Sansa—”

“No.” She slung her bag over her shoulders. “If you really wanted to help me, you should have thought about that before you chose yourself over my family.  _Our_  family.”

She knew her words stung. Sansa ignored the pain in his eyes and tried to pass him, but he extended his arm to block her. “Let me go,” she snapped.

“Just listen to me, won’t you? You can’t get to London by running.” From his pocket, Theon pulled a set of keys and held them out to her. “Take my car.”

Sansa blinked. “What?”

“Take it.” He shoved the keys at her, cautiously. “I’m sick of doing nothing. Just…just let me do this for you, please? For Robb.” He forced Sansa’s hand open and placed the keys inside, closing her palm and squeezing tight. “Get in my car and drive to London. Take a bus to Liverpool, or Bristol or Birmingham or wherever the bloody hell you need to go. Go to your mum’s family in Ireland or catch a flight to America with Jeyne. But you get out of here and don’t look back. Not even for me.”

Sympathy flooded Sansa’s heart, capped only by her gratitude. She clutched the keys and took his hand. “Come with me.”

“I can’t. Ramsay—”

“Ramsay means nothing. We can outsmart him together.”

“Not Roose, though. He’s more ruthless than Ramsay’s ever been.” Theon’s face darkened. “You haven’t seen the things I have.”

Sansa made to respond, but the howling of distant hounds cut off her reply. Terror rose in her chest. She eyed Theon earnestly. “I’ll come back for you,” she declared. “Maybe not soon, but someday. I won’t leave you here.”

“I deserve it if we’re bein’ honest.” He smiled half-heartedly. “Will you at least hit me to make it look like we fought?”  
  
“I—okay. Okay.”

Taking the gun from her bag, Sansa lifted her hand and smacked Theon across the face with the metal. He cried out and fell backwards. Sansa was certain she’d broken his nose. “Oh, god! Theon I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Just go!” Theon held his face as blood wept through his fingers. Sansa couldn’t help him despite her caring nature, knowing she’d be caught for trying. She stored the gun in the back of her jeans and apologized again before fleeing to the darkness of the woods, leaving Theon Greyjoy and the Boltons behind.

She found Theon’s car in a parking lot down the road. Sansa hurried into the driver’s seat, pushing away the thought that she may still be found, and shoved the keys in the ignition. “Break the bars,” she muttered to herself. Her hands were shaking. “Break the bars.”

She shifted the gear to drive, and sped off down the motorway.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Sansa knew she had to ditch the car. Roose would have the police searching for her by now, and the thought of Ramsay’s wrath was enough to keep her moving. She grabbed one of Theon’s beanies from the back seat and pulled it over her head, stuffing her red hair, her mother’s gift, under the wool. With a quick dump of car keys and retrieval of her bag, Sansa fled to the outskirts of the city. She kept to the shadows and dark alleys where no one would see her.

London. Once a source of joy, now a home for ghosts. Sansa remembered taking Arya here, travelling through the city just to get away. Sometimes their mother would come with them and sit by the water, eating ice cream in the summer or hot soup in the fall, chatting while the boys did whatever boys do. She remembered her father taking her to temple sometimes, and going to mass with her mother.  _They always gave us a choice, didn’t they? To go where we wanted. Worship where we wanted. Be where we wanted._

That freedom had died with them.

Sansa pulled a granola bar from her bag and unwrapped it, taking a small bite. The sun had fallen completely and London’s nightlife was in full swing, earning her more than a few sideways glances whenever someone passed. It occurred to Sansa that she didn’t have a destination. Take a bus to Liverpool, Theon had advised, or a plane to America. But she had no passport. No identification outside of a driver’s license. She could take a bus to another city, but what would she do there that she couldn’t do in London? What if the police recognized her before she could board?

_Think, Sansa. Your father was the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales, people loved him. You can find somewhere to go._

Her father had friends in parliament. In the cabinet, even. Surely one of them would take her in and listen to her story, but where would justice be without proof? Sansa bore bruises, but she had showered since Ramsay’s last lustful visit. Any fingerprints or DNA had likely washed away. And due to Roose’s scheming, Sansa legally belonged to the Boltons, having tricked or forced her father into making them her legal guardians in the event of his death. She wondered what Roose had threatened him with to take that right away from Howland Reed. Was he dead, too? Did someone murder him as they had murdered her family?

No. The government’s help was not an option. Roose Bolton could buy anyone who dared outwit him, including politicians and cabinet members who were more than crooked already.

She was on her own.

Sansa finished her dinner and threw the wrapper in a nearby bin. Rain began to fall. Not even moonlight poked through the clouds. Hopelessness settled beneath her skin as her options thinned to nonexistence. The rain fell harder with each passing minute until she was drenched to the bone, freezing from the cold of a coming winter. What choice was there but to continue? Punishment would come for her if she didn’t find a plan.  _Think, Sansa. You can’t go back there._

She would rather die than see those iron bars again.

Sansa’s fears were quieted by the sight of a telephone booth on the streetcorner. She didn’t have a cell phone, didn’t have internet access at all, but she could still reach someone. Sansa rushed through the numbing rain and opened the glass door to shelter. She pulled her bag over her shoulder and retrieved her wallet, fishing in the pouches for a few coins.

When had she ever used a phone booth? Sansa always had a cell phone before, only using the red boxes for silly photo ops with Jeyne or Robb. Sansa turned on the little light beside the phone and picked up the phonebook chained to the wall, setting her bag on the floor to finger through the pages.

 _Poole,_ Sansa thought, finding the “P” section in the directory. _Jeyne’s family would take me in._ When she found the number of her best friend’s parents, she placed the coins in the slot and dialed, hoping they wouldn’t be too deeply asleep to hear the phone ring. They were. Sansa left a message detailing her location, begging the Pooles not to alert the authorities and hanging up when she felt satisfied. Next, she tried to call the Night’s Watch headquarters. Someone there could direct her to Jon, if he was still alive, but when the person on the other line asked for identification she quickly hung up the phone. She couldn’t give government officials her name. It was dangerous, Robb had told her that before he died. He’d held her face and told her to run, but now she was running out of options.

 _Robb would know what to do._ Unbidden tears spilled down her cheeks like the rain outside, warm in contrast. She hadn’t cried since the funeral, since her mother and brothers and Talisa were lowered into the ground, but now that she was free of Ramsay her heart remembered how to feel. Sansa leaned against the wall and wept. Her body trembled from the cold, the agony, the memories of being violated, the horror of her family’s death and disappearance. She was the only one left from a golden childhood. No one would help her. Her mother’s stories of love and lessons were useless, now.

 _Mum’s stories,_ Sansa thought suddenly. She lifted her head from the wall.  _The foster boy. The one Uncle Brandon stabbed._ Sansa had hated that story—she much preferred the ones where the heroes won over the monsters—but her mother had told that piece of her past all the same, when Sansa asked why there were Christmas party invitations sent to a man who never replied. If the foster boy would not reply to her mother, there was no reason why he would answer the phone for her. But Sansa was too desperate to let that stop her from trying.

She flipped backwards through the white pages.  _B. Baelish._ She scanned until her finger stopped just below the familiar name. BAELISH, PETYR. And sure enough, there was a number listed. She picked up the phone and placed the last of her coins in the machine, dialing the number as it read and waiting for someone to answer. The phone rang and rang and rang again. _Please,_ Sansa prayed, but her heart sank at the sound of an automated response.  _“You have reached the voicemail box of…”_ A sob burst from her lips and she clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to be anywhere but here in this tiny little phonebox. Anything but prey for Ramsay to hunt. Still, she waited for the beep and left a message.

“Mr. Baelish,” said a crying Sansa. “You don’t know me, but my name is Sansa Stark. My father was Lord Eddard Stark, the Chief Justice. And my mum was Catelyn Tully. From your foster family in Ireland.” Sansa sniffled and wiped her tears. “She died three months ago and the Boltons took me in, but they tricked my father. They got him to sign me off to them before he died and I’ve been held there, hurt and locked up. I’ve only just escaped but I have nowhere to go. They’ll find me if I’m on the streets for too long, the Boltons have eyes everywhere and pay off police all the time, not to mention the Queen Mother hates me…”

Sansa was sobbing again. She knew her message was running out of time and struggled to pull herself through another wave of words. “Please, Mr. Baelish, if you ever loved my mother at all, I need help. Any help. They’re going to take me back if they find me, but I’ll die before I let them.” She glanced out the window to get her bearings. “I’m across from Saint Mary of the Angels on Moorhouse Road. I’m going to the chapel and I’ll sit inside until…until something happens. Maybe I’ll think of a plan. Maybe I won’t. But please, if you get this message, _I need help_.” Sansa cleared her throat and gathered her emotions enough to utter a small “thank you” before hanging up the phone. All she could do now was wait—wait for Jeyne’s parents, for a mysterious foster uncle, or for death. Whichever came first.

Sansa trudged back out into the rain with her bag clutched to her chest. The streets had cleared in the wake of the oncoming storm, leaving her free to run across the open road without worry of traffic. She was shaking from the cold by the time she reached the steps of the church, hoping to find sanctuary within its walls as she so often did.  _If there's no peace here, there's none anywhere._ She opened the door and stepped inside.

The little chapel was quiet and still. Stained glass and pale walls were illuminated by prayer candles. Sansa had not forgotten custom and dipped her fingers in the holy water, making the cross over her chest. Surely the Boltons would not think to attack her here. Not under God’s protection. With her bag in her arms, Sansa bowed to the altar before taking a seat in a nearby pew.

The Hail Mary was engrained in her, good Catholic girl that she was. Sansa set her backpack on the floor and retrieved her mother’s prayer beads, glossy and blue as sapphires with gold links and a crucifix. “The rosary is supposed to be simple,” Catelyn Stark always said, but every Christmas Sansa’s father would buy her more. He had an odd fascination with them, prone to watching his wife pray every night before bed. The Starks were quite the spectacle. A family of two faiths, never fitting into one but not denouncing the other. Sansa toyed with the Star of David around her neck and the rosary in her other hand, and tried to imagine her parents watching over her. She hoped they could see she was still left, at least, if all the others were gone.

Sansa got on her knees and began to pray. There was little else she could do. She cycled through the rosary, an hour on her knees before God, saying each Hail Mary as she’d been taught as a girl. She muttered the words to herself and ignored whatever happened around her. A priest may have come and tended to the candles, dusted the altar or otherwise, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was her prayer. Her hope. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

On and on she went, until a smooth voice pulled her away.

“Well, shit.”

Sansa was shocked by the use of profanity—in church, of all places—and turned to find the culprit. A dark-skinned woman leaned against the pillar behind Sansa’s row of pews, arms crossed, a great smile on thick lips. Her accent was American and dozens of braids were piled in a bun on her head. “Aww,” she said when she met Sansa’s eyes. “You’re really pretty. Pete’s gonna die.”

“I daresay you’re right.” A man accompanied the profane stranger, moving out from behind the column. He was blonde and pale where his counterpart was otherwise. “Forgive Mayana. She’s never seen a Jew praying the rosary before.”

“How do you—” Sansa’s words caught in her throat. She gathered her things and stood from her kneeling position, prayer interrupted. “How do you know who I am?”

“You said so in the message, didn’t you?” The woman, named Mayana, pulled a touchscreen phone from her pocket and tapped until the message began to play. Sansa heard her voice pleading with Mr. Baelish for help, detailing her name and location, sounding half a fool for all her crying and stumbling. “He sent us to pick you up. He would’ve come in person, but he’s a bit busy makin’ room for you. Among other things.”

The man chuckled as if she’d made a joke. “I’m Olyvar, Miss Stark. Nothing to fear from me. We work for Littlefinger. Or, Mr. Baelish.”

“How do I know that?” Sansa clutched her bag and her rosary close to her chest. “You could be working for  _them._ ”

“You didn’t call the Boltons for help, did you?” Mayana waved her phone with a matter-of-fact expression. “Roose Bolton is crazy and his son is crazier. We don’t want him running around looking for you, and neither does Littlefinger.”

Sansa looked between the two of them. She didn’t have another option besides waiting for Jeyne’s parents, who likely hadn’t gotten her message yet and wouldn’t until morning. Ramsay may find her by then. Sansa shifted nervously and glanced back to the altar, to the Savior where He hung on the cross, as if He would give her guidance.

“If you’re waiting for an answer from God, you’re not going to get one.” Olyvar took a few steps forward and extended his arms to Sansa. “Come with us, Miss Stark. You look dreadfully cold. The car is warm and waiting.”

“But you get the back seat.” Mayana twirled the keys around her finger and walked toward the exit, heels clicking on the stone floor. “Pete would probably let you ride him across London if you wanted to, but not in  _my_  car.”

Sansa didn’t register the comment. She looked to Olyvar, who gave her a nod of encouragement with eyes that held no malintent. Perhaps it was better to die trying to reach safety than waiting for Ramsay to find her, or worse.  _Maybe this is God’s answer._  With a trace of uncertainty, Sansa walked into Olyvar’s offered arms. He wrapped one around her shoulders and took her hand in the other. “You’re safe now,” he told her gently. “Littlefinger won’t let any harm come to you.”

Sansa didn’t know if that was true or not, but she supposed she would soon learn. She climbed into the back of the strangers’ truck parked outside, into the warmth and comfort of Mayana’s backseat, and hoped this was the right choice out of the few she could find.

It was out of her hands, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS HERE WE GOOOOOOO  
> I'm so stoked for this fic. Do you even know? Guys. Guys. This is gonna be so good.  
> Since these chapters are bigger than usual and this fic will be lengthy, I'm going to update once a week instead of twice, just to make sure I still can keep up with life and update regularly to keep y'all happy. **I'll be updating every Saturday at noon from now until the end of the fic.** Hear that, kids? **Every. Saturday. 12pm PST.** Be there or be square. (Just kidding, you're not a square. I also reserve the right to intermissions in case I fall behind like a lazy ass.)  
>  I'm so excited for this storyyyyyy. I'm excited for the practice-novel this is going to be, and I'm excited that I get to share this experience with a fandom that really cares. You guys are the best. I love each and every one of you.  
> Until next Saturday, sweetlings! *zooms off with a stream of glitter*


	2. Baelish, Petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[hold me down; halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKnG2d9tZdU)] ◆ [[one way or another; until the ribbon breaks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOCDUQ2zuXE)]

  
**15 OCTOBER, 2016**

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching amber waves rush over cubed ice. It was almost comforting. A familiar sight to pull him from unfamiliar circumstances. Petyr had felt change coming over the past several months, a frightening sensation like icy fingertips down the back of his neck, but he'd lain those thoughts to rest in hope that they were just a temporary inconvenience.

Unfortunately for Littlefinger, they weren't.

It had been years since he'd heard the name Catelyn Tully. Oftentimes, Petyr would flip through the channels on TV and see her Lord Justice husband doing some good work or other, pausing a moment to look at her before changing the channel again. Once upon a time, he would have cringed at the sight of Cat by another man’s side, but those were old days. Dead ones. With all pain there were lessons learned, and Petyr had learned them with the ruthlessness he was known for.

Catelyn Tully was a curse, though. One he’d yet to shake off.

Petyr replayed the message again. He shouldn’t. He’d listened to it enough times, heard Cat’s daughter’s tears and her pleas, but something was oddly enchanting about this new ordeal. Littlefinger was intrigued to hear of Bolton sabotage and secret plots—he made his living on such things, after all—and bringing the Stark girl under his influence could prove fruitful in endless ways. Petyr had seen the pictures Cat sent him of her family in those damn holiday cards. He'd watched the little redhead girl grow with each new photograph every year. But it would be different to see her in person, to see what remained of a family set ablaze.

Petyr cast his eyes to the window. He watched the trees bend and wave under a ferocious autumn storm, feeling there was a metaphor to be had if he was patient enough to find it.

“You look lost,” said a voice. Petyr didn’t look at Ros when she entered. He refilled his empty glass with Glenfiddich and took a sip, comforted by liquor’s fire on a cold night. “She’s almost ready. You might want to collect yourself before she comes in here.”

“I’m always collected.” He turned to Ros. “She’s gotten a shower? Clothes?”

“And some dinner. Olyvar and I will take her shopping for a wardrobe when there’s time. She’s going to need one if she’ll be staying here.”

Petyr nodded in agreement. “Go out tomorrow and get her the necessities. Take the black card, not the blue one.”

“Sure.” Ros folded her arms across her chest and paced Littlefinger's office. Her eyes were pensive, distant. Something bothered her. “She’s pretty, you know. Very pretty. And gentle and sweet and shy.”

“Is she?” asked Petyr, pretending to be disinterested. He picked up the newspaper and skimmed lazily through the columns, leaning back on his desk for support.

“She’s got her mother’s red hair and blue eyes.”

“Mm.”

“You’re going to like her.” A statement of fact. Petyr lifted his head at Ros’s concern. “Don’t treat her harshly, yeah? She’s been through a lot. Too much, one could say.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.” Petyr tossed the newspaper aside in favor of another sip of booze. “Can’t imagine what torture Roose Bolton would inflict on the key to Ned Stark’s money.”

“You’d be surprised.” Ros’s frown deepened. Petyr sensed there was a darker story ahead of him. “Well, maybe  _you_  wouldn’t be. But for a seventeen-year-old girl with nothing left, I don't think she's doing too well. She hadn't eaten in three days before we fed her.”

“She’s not crying, is she?” Petyr cringed at the thought. “I don’t need a teary teenager moaning around the place.”

“Not that I've seen, but she must have been earlier. Her eyes are all red and puffy.”

_Christ._  Teenagers were so emotional. He scratched his chin, feeling the overwhelming urge for a cigarette, or something stronger. “Send her in when she’s ready, then, and only when she’s ready. I want to speak with her. Alone.”

“Of course.” Ros nodded and left the room. Petyr felt a peculiar nervousness wash over him. This was a gift, wasn’t it? A stroke of good luck in an unlucky occupation. There was nothing to fear from a girl who was a shadow of her mother’s ghost, a poor reflection of something greater.  _So why do I feel upset?_

Petyr needed distraction. He sat at his desk and glanced through paperwork, notes from Tyrion Lannister about the crown’s recent expenses and an update from Olenna Tyrell on America's political season.  _Mayana’s going to_ _love this._  He cracked a smile and crossed one leg over the other, burying himself in firsthand accounts of Congress's shitfest overseas. He wasn’t particularly interested in manipulating America, but it was amusing to watch them fall apart. Sometimes a view from the sidelines was just as good as pulling the strings himself.

He didn’t know how long he sat there until the door to his office clicked open. Petyr lifted his eyes from his reading and stared at the girl who entered.

Perhaps he was right to feel nervous after all.

Sansa Stark was a vision. Long Irish hair like her mother, red as the sun with rivers in her eyes he could drown in. Her figure was more like an hourglass than Cat’s ever was, though she kept it hidden in a hoodie too big for her—Olyvar’s, he assumed. Petyr watched the way she fumbled with her hands and shifted her feet, eyes everywhere but on him directly.  _Ros came as a warning, then._  What minuscule heart Petyr had began to stir.

“You must be Cat’s daughter,” said Petyr calmly, rising from his chair and straightening his suit jacket. “I can tell just by looking at you.”

The young woman smiled, though it was small and withdrawn. “And you’re Petyr Baelish.” She met his eyes at last. The room brightened and darkened all at once. “Your home is beautiful. I've never seen anything like it.”

“Ah, yes. Old thing. Bought it about fifteen years ago. Somehow I've managed to keep it running.”

Sansa looked around his office, admiring the mahogany paneling and plush carpets. It was useless to Littlefinger, just another show of wealth, but it seemed exquisite to an easily-charmed teenager. She stepped further into the room and turned to him. “Thank you so much, Mr. Baelish. I don’t think you know what you’ve done for me. I would’ve died if I’d stayed out there.”

“I know.” Petyr let his face show warmth. He approached her with care, reaching to take her hand unthreateningly in his. Her skin was soft, pale under the light, but her nails were uneven and bitten from anxiety. “You shouldn't worry, my dear. You’re safe with me.”

Her little sigh of relief was not missed. Petyr gestured to the sofa by the hearth and let her sit down, watching how her knees held tight together as she hugged her arms.  _This is not a girl who’s been treated well._  “Would you like some water?”

“Oh," said Sansa. "That’d be wonderful, thank you.”

Petyr took two cups and filled one with water, the other with his amber whiskey. He had a feeling he’d need it. He crossed the room again and offered her refreshment. Sansa thanked him, and Petyr took a seat across from her.

He watched Sansa intently. The silence was awkward, interrupted only by rain pattering on the window. Petyr was more interested in studying her mannerisms and physical form than engaging in conversation, for now. Sansa noticed his wandering eyes and hugged herself tighter, shifting in her seat and taking sips from her glass.

“I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you,” she said. “I don’t have to stay long if you don't want me here. I was thinking about going to America with my best friend, or maybe Ireland to my Uncle Edmure.”

“America?” Petyr scoffed. “No, no. Roose Bolton won't stop pursuing you at the border. Besides, your uncle's a farmer and his wife is eight months pregnant. Neither can afford to keep you there. Not with the Boltons on your heels.” He took a long drink of whiskey and shook his head, resting the cup on his thigh. “Cat was like a sister to me. I won’t dishonor her memory by turning you away. You can consider this your home, Sansa. From now on.”

“Home,” she repeated. The word didn’t seem to comfort her as he hoped it would. Petyr changed tactics and tried for the route of distraction, hoping to dig for information as he eased her.

“I am curious how you got my name. Not many know it. Did your mother talk about me?”

“Mhm.” Sansa placed her water on the table and leaned back. Petyr resisted the urge to remind her to use a coaster. “I was just a little girl, probably eight or nine. I walked into Mum’s study to ask about presents for the holiday, and she was sending you an invitation to our Christmas party. I asked who you were. She told me.”

“And what did she say?”

Sansa cleared her throat. “She…she said that you were her foster brother in Ireland. My granddad was your godfather because he was war buddies with your dad, or something. You came to live with them after your parents died. She thought of you as a good friend.” Her eyes grew sad. “She invited you every year to our family party, but you never came.”

Petyr’s lip twitched in a smirk. “Did she tell you why?”

“I—” Sansa shook her head. “I don’t want to bring up bad memories for you, Mr. Baelish. I don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s alright. Many years have passed. It’s impossible to hurt me now.” Petyr smiled and flicked perspiration from the glass off his fingers, curious enough to continue. “What did she say?”

Sansa was hesitant, but she spoke anyway. “Mum said that Uncle Brandon stabbed you. He almost killed you because you were defending her from him.” She swallowed hard and looked away. “Uncle Brandon was hot-headed. He was angry that Father was going to marry Mum. Some sort of weird love triangle, I guess. He tried to come after her drunk one night, but you stepped in and fought him.” Petyr watched Sansa's eyes go distant, and for a moment he thought he read pity in them. He didn’t want her sympathy, but it was better than her fear. “Granddad was furious and disowned you. She never saw you again.”

_So, Cat, you told it true._  Petyr didn’t know if he was relieved or unsettled that Catelyn told the truth rather than the lie she’d been forced to repeat. Littlefinger took a long drink of liquor and considered his answer. “That’s all true. Petyr Baelish disappeared not long afterward. Remember that, Sansa; I am  _Littlefinger_  to the eyes of the world. To anyone who matters. No one knows my true name, save for a very small handful of others.” Another drink.  _Too fast, slow down._  “Ah. Well. Doesn’t matter now. The past is gone for good, all we can do is prepare for the future.” He stood from his seat and finished his third glass of whiskey after throwing his head back. “I have a gift for you, my dear. One I think you might like.”

Petyr set his empty glass on his desk and pulled a small box from one of the many drawers. The box was an old thing, dusted with time. He’d only retrieved it an hour ago, waiting for Sansa’s arrival while trying to imagine what she might look like. But the photos were far better off in Sansa’s hands than his. He closed the drawer and came to her, offering his simple gift. “For you.”

Sansa didn’t understand, but Petyr was patient. She took the box and opened it. Inside was the collection of holiday cards Cat had sent over the years, the humble Stark family growing as the images went on. They all stood before the same fireplace, the same Christmas tree and menorah, the same decorations. All that changed was the family.

Sansa was silent for a long time. Littlefinger hoped she was moved by his gesture. He wanted Sansa to feel safe with him, but more importantly, he wanted her trust. It was much easier to manipulate someone when their heart was involved. He put his hands in his pockets and waited for her reaction, for any notion of gratitude or joy.

What he got instead were tears.

Sansa draped her fingertips over the most recent picture. In it, she was being carried by her two older brothers, wearing a massive smile while the other Stark children made odd faces at the camera. Ned and Cat stood in the center with their arms raised in confusion. It was a humorous pose to say the least, for those who enjoyed that sort of thing, but the memory was likely painful for Sansa. “I didn't mean to upset you,” Petyr said.

“No, it's okay. Really.” Sansa sniffled and wiped her tears. “This is a wonderful gift. I'll keep them forever. Thank you, Mr. Baelish. Thank you so much.” She lifted her head and smiled at him, eyes puffy and red from whatever crying she'd already done. She was underweight and weary, Petyr could see it in her cheeks and blue eyes, and he had the sudden urge to undo whatever had been done to her. Having achieved his goal, Littlefinger returned Sansa's warm expression and opened his mouth to dismiss her.

The light caught her skin. He saw them, purple bruises on the back of her neck in the shape of a hand.

“What are these?” Petyr reached out and brushed her hair back. Sansa gasped and jerked away, but it was too late. He knew. Petyr didn't have to think very hard to picture the position her bruises had come from. _You'd be surprised,_  Ros had said. Only now did it register.

Petyr stepped closer to Sansa, crouching down to her level to meet eye-to-eye. The last thing he wanted was her fear. “Sansa,” he said, voice raw and stern. “Tell me who did this to you.”

She was unresponsive. Sansa wouldn't look at him, clutching the box with her family photos as if it would take her back to better days.

“Sansa,” he said again. “Look at me.”

She blinked. After a moment, her eyes met his.

“Who did this to you?”

“Ramsay,” she said bitterly. “Roose Bolton’s son.” Her tone was cracked and frayed; she was trying not to cry again. “He took my food away after I wanted to fast for Yom Kippur. I just wanted to observe the holiday, but he decided that meant I shouldn’t eat at all.” She shuddered. “He kept me in a room with bars on the window, and every night he'd come.”

Sansa didn't need to elaborate. Rage was uncommon for a man who kept his emotions under lock and key, but Petyr felt it all the same. How could anyone hurt Sansa in such a way? He'd only just met her, but she was exactly as Ros had described. Sweet, gentle, shy. Beautiful. Ned Stark had done her a disservice by letting her walk into the hands of beasts, willingly or no.  _But there's more to the story than just this.  
_

He sighed as Sansa sobbed again. She covered her mouth and drew her knees to her chest, setting the box of pictures aside to hug herself. Petyr was excellent at reading people, and what he saw in her was not unlike what he'd seen in other victims.  _She looks terrified of her own body._  Petyr was horrible at caregiving, but it was clear that Sansa needed more than just Littlefinger if she was to blossom beyond this state of terror. He just had to be careful not to wilt the flower by tending her too much.

“Shhh, Sansa. It's alright,” said Petyr, moving cautiously to sit by her side. Sansa melted into him when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. She was too weak to resist. It fulfilled him somehow, to feel her weeping and clutching his shirt in the ball of her fist, as if he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. In truth, he would be the weight that kept her submerged, but even anchors could offer stability through the waves. He rubbed her back in slow circles and kept gentle hold of her head. “You are safe here. We will make them pay for what they've done to you, Sansa, and your family.” He held her for as long as she needed, not concerned with time until she pulled away. He wiped her tears with his thumbs and held her face. “Do you believe me?”

Sansa nodded. “I think so.”

“Good. I have to leave tomorrow on a trip, pre-planned I'm afraid, but Olyvar and the girls will watch over you. When I return, we can discuss this more.” He stood from the sofa, taking the box with him and offering a hand to help her. When she was on her feet, Petyr wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and walked with her down the hall, up the first flight of stairs to the second floor. He stopped outside his bedroom door and motioned to the one across from it. “Your room,” he said. “Mine is just here, if you ever need anything. I will fetch the others to stay with you tonight.”

“Okay,” she replied.

“They are good company. Feel free to talk with them, just don't keep me up. I have to be at Heathrow in five hours.”

“Oh.” Sansa sniffled and wrung her hands. “I'm sorry if I kept you up, Mr. Baelish. I didn't—”

“It's alright. Don't fret.” Petyr handed her the box of photographs and touched her face again. “I wouldn't have taken you in if it was an inconvenience. And please, call me Petyr.” With care, he lowered her head to press a long kiss to her crown. The gesture seemed to comfort her and she was half-smiling when he pulled away. “I'll see you next week.”

“Have a good trip.” Sansa held the pictures tight and offered a little wave before entering her room, and closed the door.

Petyr's smile fell. He was furious, offended, as if the Boltons had broken something that was rightfully his. He'd kept up-to-date on Cat's family with the letters and cards she would send, though few and far-between, and in a way, he felt connected to the Stark children despite the lack of contact. But Sansa was _his_ now. His responsibility. His niece, or daughter, or ward, or whatever the hell one would call it on a legal document.

It didn't really matter now.

Petyr shoved open the kitchen door when he made his way downstairs. Ros, Mayana and Olyvar were finishing the frosting on little lemon-flavored cakes, drinking wine and laughing from some unheard joke. The moment they laid eyes on Petyr, all the smiles died. "I told you he'd be upset," muttered Ros.

“A better warning would have been appreciated,” shot Petyr. “'You'd be surprised,' you said. What does that tell me?”

“I didn't think you'd be  _that_  upset.” Ros straightened her back. “Was it worse than I thought? She didn't tell me anything, I just saw the bruises when she got out of the shower.”

“Worse. Roose's son kept her to himself, locked in a room. You can imagine what transpired there.” Petyr ran his fingers through his hair and groaned. “He's gone too far this time.”

“Locked in a room? Are y—no. That's  _fucked up._ ” Mayana's face twisted with a rage he mirrored. “First with Tansy and Donella, and now Cat's kid? He's gotta go, Pete.”

“Move the Boltons to top priority. Keep eyes on Cersei too, she's got a hand in this somehow. I'm sure of it.” Petyr caught his phone when Olyvar tossed it to him across the room, scrolling through his contacts to find Tyrion's number. “Sansa needs doctor appointments tomorrow. A full examination, dental, eyes, a physical, medication checks, mental health. Get her clothes from her tonight and bag them for evidence. Make sure she’s comfortable. And make an appointment with Varys, someone. I want to see him when I'm back from France.”

“Will do,” said Olyvar.

“And don't let Sansa out of your sight until I return.”

“Of course.”

Petyr pushed open the kitchen door, not bothering to close it when he left. He trudged up the stairs and hauled himself into bed, fully dressed, knowing it would take a miracle to clear his head and catch some sleep.

All he knew for certain was the colossal target painted on Roose Bolton's back.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**23 OCTOBER, 2016**

Distance from Sansa was the safest course. For that, Littlefinger was grateful for France's distraction. Speaking with Margaery Tyrell was always a joy. She stroked his ego just the way he liked, kept him informed on the United Nations and was always open to discussing political moves in lesser countries. They had a working relationship of sorts, deepened by Littlefinger's kept tab on the favors she owed him. But not even the Tyrell girl or Paris could take his mind off of Sansa and the predicament Petyr had found her in.

A week after Sansa's daring escape, Roose Bolton put out a missing person's report. Petyr laughed when he got the message from Varys after landing back in London.

_Got anything to do with this? - V_

In the report, Roose had labeled Sansa as his "beloved goddaughter" he'd adopted from his "late friend" Lord Stark.  _What a joke._  Littlefinger stood on the escalator stairs, replying to Varys one-handed while the other held his luggage.

_Roose is a cunt. Sell your stock in Bolton Corp while you can._

Petyr slipped his phone in his pocket and looked up when he reached the main floor. Olyvar was standing in a line of people, cab drivers and friends of passengers holding signs to locate people of interest. Olyvar rushed over to him on sight, wearing a ridiculously bright sweater that stung his eyes.

“You stick out,” said Petyr.

“I like attracting attention.” Olyvar handed him a file that Petyr took in exchange for his luggage. Petyr started walking before Olyvar was ready and skimmed through the printed paperwork, a collection of information on Roose Bolton's recent purchases and business deals.

“Boring,” mumbled Petyr, making his way across the airport. “Nothing to suggest he's expecting Sansa's inheritance any time soon. That's a good sign, at least.”

“Must be,” panted Olyvar, having finally caught up. Petyr was amused by his exhaustion. “How much is in that fortune, anyway?”

“Well over six-figures. Millions, I think, perhaps more. I wouldn't put it past the Starks to live modestly while hoarding all their riches for their children to live off of.”

“The news has been saying it's one of the largest inheritances of the decade.”

“And they're probably right.” Petyr stepped through the sliding glass doors and out into the parking lot, spotting Olyvar's Lexus from a distance. He huffed in disappointment. “I can't believe you left that thing unattended. Someone's dying to break into it. I don't let you have money so you can have your things stolen.”

“No. You let me have money because I work for you, and you're not a complete dick.”

Petyr closed the files and tucked them under his arm. “You shouldn't say that. People might actually believe you.”

The two men crossed the parking lot to Olyvar’s silver car, beautiful and brand new. Petyr took the passenger seat as Olyvar placed his luggage in the trunk. He read through the paperwork again and ignored his companion turning the engine over, as well as the dull sounds of popular songs on the radio. Petyr became absorbed in his reading. Roose Bolton's finances were irritatingly well-run overall.  _Barbrey does her job well._ Olyvar pointed to the file after pulling out onto the main road. “Page 37,” he said. “Mayana said there's something you'd like there.”

“37,” Petyr repeated. He flipped the pages and stopped when he reached the right one. “It's a fucking penis,” he scoffed. “Walder Frey's face with a giant dick drawn on top of it. Does that girl have any maturity? Why do I let her in my house?”

Olyvar burst into laughter, changing lanes with a glance out the window. “No, no! Under that. Fuck, I forgot all about the dick she drew. Oh my god.”

_I'm in my forties and I choose_ _children for company._  Petyr shook his head and read the handwritten caption underneath Walder Frey's vulgar face.

Petyr flipped the page. At the top was a photo of Roose Bolton shaking hands with Walder, handing him a package in a hidden alley.

“Oh,” said Petyr, quite pleased. “This is interesting.”

“What is?”

Petyr skimmed the next few pages to see more pictures of a shady back-alley meeting, along with a follow-up from Ros on a rather large deposit to Frey's personal bank account. “Walder Frey is doing business with Roose.”

“Frey's a member of the cabinet,” said Olyvar. “Transport, right? Secretary of State?”

“Unfortunately, thanks to Tywin Lannister.” Petyr closed the file and scratched his chin. “I wonder what our friend is doing with a walking corpse like Walder Frey.”

“Robb Stark was supposed to marry his daughter.”

“He was.” Petyr narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps he was angry for being slighted over the loss of potential partnership with the Starks. Turned to the Boltons and/or Lannisters for help. Offs Ned, kills Cat and her sons, burns down their home and scatters all the rest. Makes sure the missing daughter is never found."

“And he gets a cut of the fortune when the Boltons take it from Sansa.”

“Right.” Petyr chuckled. “It would be clever, really, if I wasn’t so much better at finding secrets than others are at keeping them.”

“This could go deeper than we thought.” Olyvar turned to Petyr when he reached a stoplight. “Sansa is the last Stark to be seen alive, but she's not eighteen yet. Legally, she can't claim anything until she's an adult. Someone else has to be in on it. If the cabinet is tainted...”

“She's older than her years, I assure you. But you're right. I think Roose planned to force Sansa to marry Ramsay, gaining her inheritance through him.”

“Forced marriage.” Olyvar sighed in disgust. “It's the 21st century. How could someone do a thing like that?”

“There are many ways. We simply have to find out which one it is, and who benefited from it.”

Petyr fell silent after that. His mind was swimming with possibilities, but nothing could come to the surface without evidence. Until then, he would wait. Watch. Plan, and do what he did best.

The sight of home was a welcome one. Petyr had always been fond of the Cotswolds manor he'd purchased on Jon Arryn's dime, with its A-lined roofs and growing wisteria. Petyr exited the car when Olyvar finished parking and walked over to his side.

“Give this back to the girls,” said Petyr, handing Olyvar the file. “Tell Mayana to stop drawing dicks on things. Repeat to them what I said in the car, and find out what's in the package Roose gave Walder. I expect a full report on Frey and Lannister interactions within the past three months. I want to know if Tywin took a shit and Walder smelled it. Is that clear?”

“As crystal.” Olyvar heaved Petyr's luggage out of the trunk. Petyr stopped him to retrieve a black box from inside, glad to see his priceless gift wasn't damaged during the flight. Olyvar laughed wickedly when he read the box's label. “Are you joking? You got her that and you couldn't pick up something for me?”

“Buy one yourself. I'm your employer, not your lover.”

“You're not  _her_  lover, either.”

Petyr smirked, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lifting it to his lips. “Not yet.” He left Olyvar with that wonderful thought, lighting his tobacco and breathing in. He paced the outer perimeter of the grounds to bring Sansa what he'd bought for her, and to see how his recent acquisition fared.

He found her in the back gardens, on a chair swing under the willow tree. Petyr kept her present tucked under one arm and his cigarette in his other hand as he approached her. She was writing something down in a book, concentrating rather heavily. She only noticed him when he came close enough. Upon realizing she wasn't alone, Sansa smiled and scooted over to make room for him.

“I didn't mean to disturb you,” said Petyr, sitting down by her invitation. She looked so much healthier than she had before, gaining weight in her face and losing it on her heart. “You weren't in the middle of something, I hope?”

“No, it's alright. I was almost done anyway.” Sansa closed her book and rested her hands in her lap. “How was France?”

“Wonderful, as always. I accomplished things there that had been in the works for months.” He smiled and took a drag of tobacco, blowing smoke into the breeze. “It's a good feeling, when bad business pays off.”

Sansa nodded. It was clear she didn’t fully understand, but that was fine. There was time to teach her. From under his arm, Petyr pulled the wrapped box and handed it to her with a smile. “I picked this up on my way out of Paris. I thought to send you a picture for approval, but not until after I'd bought it. Impulsive purchase, I'm afraid.”

“For me?” Sansa eyed the box with wide eyes, reading the label as Olyvar had. “But—but that's a Dior box.  _The_  Dior. Like, the fashion designer.”

“I'd hope so. I paid a small fortune for it.”

Sansa looked flustered. “Mr. Baelish—”

“Petyr.”

She took a breath. “Are you sure? That's—I've never had something so expensive before. I hope you don't think I need it.”

“Need? No. Hopefully Ros took care of those things.” Petyr eyed her fondly. “I never had children, Sansa, never found the right person to settle down with. I hope it makes sense if I want to spoil you a little.” He pushed the box to her. “Go on. Open it. Tell me if you like what you see.”

Sansa was wary, but she eventually broke into a smile. Petyr returned it. Even if she hated the gift, her expression made it all worthwhile.

When Sansa removed the lid from the box, she gasped. The dress was neutral gray and above-the-knee, long sleeves hidden beneath a flowery lace pattern that hugged the wrists. It flared at the hips, making a skirt of flowing satin, and zippered down the back beneath patterned silk. Petyr had seen the dress in a window and pictured Sansa wearing it, trusting his guess on her measurements and confirming with a simple text to Ros. The price tag was never an issue. Only Sansa's satisfaction with it.

“It's beautiful,” Sansa whispered. “Wow.  _Real_  Dior.”

“I heard you liked things a bit on the modest side, so the sleeves will suit you well. Especially with the coming winter.” He watched her match the shoulders of the dress to her own, imagining how it would look on her. “You'll have to try it on for me sometime.”

“This...thank you. I can't—I don't even know what to say.” Sansa was smiling, which was the outcome Petyr had hoped for, but there was hesitation in her acceptance as well. He couldn't blame her. Others had showered her in luxury before, only to show her the back of their hand later on. Petyr would offer no such cruelty. He chased thoughts of her pain away with another intake of nicotine and a gentle touch on her cheek.

“You're welcome, Sansa. I hope to see you smile like this more often.” Petyr removed his hand from her. “What were you reading?”

“O-Oh. Just...you know. Something important.” Sansa neatly folded the dress and tucked it back in the box, pulling the book out from underneath. Petyr read the title:  _Recovery After Rape._ He frowned when he looked at her, but there wasn't as much sadness in her eyes as there had been before.  _I underestimated her strength considerably._  “Ros and Olyvar suggested it to me. They've helped a lot. Every day we talk about it. How to, you know, work through it. What happened to me.” She curled her hair behind her ear, a gesture of anxiety. “The book is really good so far. All three of your friends have been so helpful.”

“I expect nothing less,” Petyr replied. “I asked them to help you. I'm glad they're doing so. Olyvar always jumps at the chance to put his psychology degree to use, anyway.” Petyr didn't divulge the fact that he'd bought _Recovery After Rape_ in the first place, and read it long ago. “You seem like you're doing much better. Is there anything immediate I can do to help you get settled? Besides a phone, of course. And a laptop as well, I expect you'll be wanting one.”

“Not that I can think of.” Sansa toyed with her nails, picking at the jagged edges. “Really, you don't have to spend so much on me. I don't want to feel like a burden.”

“You're not a burden, my dear. Trust me. If you were, you wouldn't be here at all.”

When the silence became unbearable, Petyr rose from the chair swing and dropped his dying cigarette on the cement. He stamped it out with his shoe. “Come inside whenever you're finished, Sansa. I expect Ros will have dinner ready soon.” He turned to leave, content with how his little gamble had played out.

_It’s only a matter of time._

“Petyr, wait.”

He paused. The use of his name summoned pride, and Petyr faced Sansa again with an unhidden smirk. “Yes, my dear?”

“There is one thing. Something you could do.” Sansa stood up and made her way to him, standing at equal height.

“And what is that?”

“You mentioned making the Boltons pay for what they did.” Sansa looked at him, too shy to ask directly, but Petyr knew her meaning. “I want them to. I don't want Ramsay to hurt anyone else and if I can put him behind bars, I should at least try.”

“Bars?” Petyr scoffed. Her look of defeat told him that she thought he was mocking her. “No. Ramsay will never sit behind bars, sweet Sansa, nor will his father. That's not what I meant by 'make them pay.'”

“How do we do it, then?”

_Oh, you will learn._  He stepped forward and closed the distance between them, lightly brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. Sansa’s eyes surrendered to him. Her breath shook with how close they were, and perhaps she was nervous, but Petyr had her right where he wanted her. Still too soon to push his luck, he took a strand of her auburn hair between his fingers and smiled.

"We kill them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should just title this "AU where Petyr is a swag sugar daddy" tbh  
> You'll notice that Petyr might seem a bit...different, but I think that's because I insist he has friends in a modern AU. Team Baelish is an absolutely FABULOUS group of people and I love them to pieces. Ultimate #SquadGoals. And while I know it might divert from canon a bit, it's impossible for Petyr to have an operation as big as his without buddies to help him run it. I understand if a less chaotic-evil Baelish isn't your cup of tea though, so if you're deciding to hop off the train here, I'll miss you! :') Chaotic neutral Pete is so swag and I love him and I can't wait to write him more. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> If you want some visual aid for Petyr's house, **Google up "Buckland Manor".** It's a luxury house-hotel about 2 hours from London, but I'm stealing it for this fic because it's too beautiful and I want it. So there.  
>  The book Sansa is reading, _Resurrection After Rape_ , is a real book that has helped me in my own journey to healing. The authors have a [download link](http://www.resurrectionafterrape.org/) to read it for free, for those of my readers who might be seeking help, or you can purchase it and support them. :) it's a wonderful book. (I should get paid for this lmao)  
> Also, [here's a link](http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Judaism/holiday4.html) to read up about Yom Kippur if you're interested!  
> I hope you like this chapter ahhhh, your love for this story has given me LIFE. LIFE, MY CHILDREN. I'm stoked to show you how this little tale will unfold. Ugh you guys are just so great I can't even  
> See you next Saturday! **Hint: Petyr and Sansa don't make an appearance.** Who's the next POV? hmmmMmmMMMmm


	3. Sanguine Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[paint it black; the rolling stones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4irXQhgMqg)] ◆ [[me, myself & i; g-eazy, bebe rexha](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Zbw86Xts5Q)] ◆ [[winterfell; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RtiyS6Goto)]   
> 

  
**31 OCTOBER, 2016**

No One could hear them breathing. Ragged sounds, heavy. If she closed her eyes and tuned out the intoxicated crowd, there were only her opponents and her, the prey and the wolf. They weren't quiet breathers, either. Great brutes with rippling muscles and jaws like steel. Eyes held shut, No One clenched her fists. She’d come too far to lose to men like them. When the cage door closed and locked, a hungry audience began to cry for blood. She would give them what they came for.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted the announcer, her voice booming over heavy metal from the loudspeaker. “Welcome to the House of Black and White!” 

 _Stupid Waif._  No One didn’t want to listen. She ignored the hype over the coming fight, a showdown to conclude a week-long tournament for a champion’s prize that could set her free. She kept her inner monologue running, her mantra, the motto she’d kept close to her heart. _Calm as still water,_ she could hear Syrio say.  _Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow._

No One opened her eyes. The Mountain’s Men glared at her as if she were the sheep instead of the predator, but she knew better. The House of Black and White was her territory. They were the strangers, the intruders, and she didn’t take kindly to them.

“What are your names?” called No One across the cage.

The three men looked to each other and laughed. The tallest one, sporting a massive beard she made a note to grab, stepped forward to the middle of the ring and cracked his tattooed knuckles. “You think you're gonna win? Ten thousand quid goes to the champion. I ain't givin' that up to some skinny bitch.”

“Fine. I'll just give you your own names, then.” No One observed her opponents’ features, picking out the notable ones. “Smelly, Fat and Beard-o. I think those fit well enough.”

“Watch your mouth,” spat Smelly, “or I'll come fuck it when we're done with you.”

“Not me,” said Arya Stark. “Not today.”

The bell rang.

She dodged Smelly's first lunge. Arya rolled under his fist and slammed her foot against Fat's ribs, too quick for him to retaliate. He stumbled backwards and hit the cage wall, dazed and confused at having been pushed by a girl half his size.

“Come on, that's hardly a fight!” Arya taunted. She skipped around the edge of the ring, gliding her fingertips along the bars to rally the drunken crowd. Foul smells of drugs and sweat didn’t faze her anymore. _“No One!”_ they chanted in unison.  _“No One! No One!"_  

Fat was getting frustrated. He and Beard-o tag-teamed Arya and flanked her from either side. She leapt forward and dodged their fists. Smelly recovered and tried to surprise Arya from behind, but she was too fast, too wild. The next strike met open air. Arya grabbed Smelly's wrist, breaking it over her shoulder. She climbed him like an animal and snatched his chin and head in her hands, yanking them backwards until he fell to the ground. A precise slam of her elbow to his sternum brought a crack she heard over the crowd.  _One, out._

Fat's weight could be used against him. He came at her and Arya rolled away, pushing herself up and kicking his jaw before he could strike. An elbow to the pressure point on the neck followed by a knee to the face was enough to send Fat reeling, lying beside his friend as blood gushed from his nose.  _Two, out._

Arya turned to find Beard-o.  _Where is he?_  She turned again, realizing her error when he caught her in a chokehold. His grip was strong and cut off her windpipe in seconds.

“Think you can outsmart me, skinny bitch?” he growled. “Think we haven’t taken out rats like you before?”

 _Cocky jerk._ Arya paid for her mistake with fading consciousness, but before she blacked out Arya reached back to dig her nails in his beard. She yanked out a handful of hair and left him screaming.

Beard-o’s hold on her broke. Arya collapsed to the ground and gasped for breath. She clutched her throat, trying to rush her body into recovery, but his boot met her side and she cried out. He punched her jaw and made her vision stutter. Once. Twice.  _One more blow and I'm dead._ Arya was a little thing, and compared to a man of Beard-o's size she was an ant beneath the foot of a giant.

But under such odds, her determination surged.

Arya rolled away from the third strike. She wrapped her legs around Beard-o’s shoulder and neck, tightening him in a triangle between her thighs and holding her shin to choke him. He was strong, so strong that Arya felt her muscles stretch beyond their limits just to keep him held. She screamed to the cage ceiling.  _Money means Jon,_ she thought in agony.  _Money means Sansa. Money means home._

Beard-o slowly fell limp. Arya released him and struggled to rise to her feet, clutching her ribs, barely able to see through her swollen left eye. But she'd won. The crowd cheered her name.  _“No One! No One!”_  The Waif grabbed her arm and raised it in the air, a motion of triumph, but all Arya wanted was her pay and her family. She lifted her eyes to the upper booth to see Jaqen smiling down at her with approval.

She knew she was almost there.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Arya hovered over the kitchen sink, spitting red down the drain.  _Split lip,_ she thought.  _Black eye. Bruised ribs. And my jaw's all messed up._ Arya cupped water in her hands and splashed it on her aching face, wincing, but it was nothing a little Tylenol couldn't help. She looked in the mirror and saw a stranger looking back. A stranger's name was once Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Chief Justice Eddard Stark, but now she wasn't sure, having lost herself so many times that it was hard to find where the pieces had fallen.

“It was a rough fight,” said a voice from behind her. Arya knew Jaqen had been there, watching, but she didn't care. She took a washcloth and the glass of rubbing alcohol he offered. “No One almost lost.”

“I didn't, though.” She dipped the rag in the clear liquid and brought it to her bleeding temple, hissing at the sting. “Where's my money? I won it fair and square.”

“A man gets half.”

 _“Half?”_ Arya spat. “No! That's bullshit. I worked for this. You're not taking half.”

“What does a girl need ten-thousand pounds for?” Jaqen took a seat at the table and leaned back, expression neutral. He reeked of weed and women. “She is homeless. She has nothing.”

“I don’t have nothing. And I’m  _not_  homeless.” No, Arya knew better. Just because she lived under a bridge didn't mean she was without a home. “I'm just… stuck. That's all.”

Jaqen sighed, folding his hands in his lap. “No One makes my life difficult.”

Arya crawled up on the counter to sit, dipping the rag back in the alcohol. It turned red with her blood. “I never signed that stupid contract. I can leave whenever I want, and I want to go  _now._ ” Her voice was stern where Jaqen was passive. “Give me what's mine. Then you don't have to deal with ‘difficult’ No One anymore.”

She watched him sit there, hesitating as if he wasn't rich enough to afford whatever he lost by giving Arya the full ten. What did he need it for, anyway? He made enough from his drugs to keep happy. Arya crinkled her nose and prepared to fight for her winnings, but Jaqen submitted and reached his hand into his jacket pocket. “I keep thirty percent.”

“Five.”

“Twenty.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen,” they both said together. Jaqen’s smile told Arya that he approved. He counted out his share and tossed the rest to her, and she caught it one-handed.

“Where will a girl go?” Jaqen pulled a blunt from his other pocket, along with a lighter in the shape of a naked woman. “No One has been here for months, fighting in the cage. She has many fans.”

“I never wanted that.” Arya skimmed through the cash and counted it in her head, grinning when the number came out right. She set down the alcohol and walked over to her backpack, securing the money in the menstrual pads she'd made into a wallet to keep thieves from stealing. The smell of marijuana filled the room and Arya coughed, trying to wave it away. “I'll go where I have to, when I have to. Why do you care?”

“You bring in money.” Smoke passed from his lips with every word. “It is a shame to let a girl of such value walk away.”

“Yeah. It is.” Arya took gauze from the countertops, some Neosporin and other first-aid things. Antibiotics, rubbing alcohol, ibuprofen and cotton pads. Just in case. Jaqen didn’t seem to mind her thievery—he owed her quite a lot—and Arya didn’t plan on coming back, not ever. When her backpack was full and zipped, she slung it over her shoulder and looked at him across the room. “Goodbye, Jaqen. Thanks for helping me.”

Arya had made her intentions clear. Jaqen seemed to understand, and gave her a nod of respect as she left.

The moment Arya closed Jaqen’s door, she heaved a great sigh of relief.  _It’s over now. It’s done._ Leaving him and the cages behind was a victory all its own.

Arya carefully descended the steps and walked into the autumn night. She knew the safest route back to her bridge, having trekked there countless times in the months of her disappearance. She remembered little of how she got there, from the fatal car crash to a small community of homeless families living beneath the motorway. Arya was nothing if not grateful. She’d healed under Yoren’s care and put her skills to use in the cages, but now she could leave it all behind and focus on the goals that kept her breathing.  _Jon. Sansa. Home._  She said it every night before she went to sleep, her little list of reasons to stay alive.  _Jon. Sansa. Home. Jon. Sansa. Home._  And as much as she loved Jon and butted heads with Sansa, home could never be real again without both of them.

Arya pulled her hood over her head, pushing the button on the crosswalk with a closed fist. Walking was a struggle when all she wanted to do was sleep. Arya was never a philosophical girl, but she was beginning to understand what her father meant when he’d talk about feeling older than his years. She was only fifteen, not even an adult, but already she felt half-buried in an early grave. Loneliness was hard to bear. Sansa was missing, Arya had heard about it on the news walking by an electronics store off 5th Ave, and Jon had deserted the Night's Watch months ago. She’d heard that, too.  _I could be the only one left._  

No. She couldn't go to that place, the sad place. Arya trudged further through the city slums and kept to herself, pushing thoughts of her family as far away as she could while still keeping them close to her heart.

“Cat!” shouted a blonde-haired boy when he saw her across the street. He waved his dirty arms wildly to get her attention, and she waved back. “Cat, come quick! Yoren's got chicken!”

“Chicken?”  _I couldn't have heard that right._  Arya waited for the signal before she crossed the street, climbing over the crosswire fence despite the pain. She landed on her feet. Lommy was there to greet her. He said nothing about her face; it wasn’t the first time she’d returned to the bridge looking like hell. People were used to it.

“He just took them chickens,” panted Lommy. “Snatched ‘em. We were gonna give ‘em to the father and daughter ‘round the corner, because she’s starvin’ an’ all, but they weren’t there. So we get to keep ‘em!”

“I don’t believe you.” But Arya smiled, as much as she could with a split lip. “Chicken? Really?”

“Come on, see for yourself!”

Lommy grabbed her arm and rushed to their makeshift home. A small collection of mattresses, barrel fires and sleeping bags were lined in a row beneath the highway bridge near an entrance to the sewer tunnels. Arya dropped her backpack near her bed and darted over to where Yoren proudly sat. He was grinning devilishly. Three pre-cooked, plastic-wrapped rotisserie chickens were in his lap, smelling fresh of spice and marinade. Arya felt her mouth water.

"I stole ‘em,” said Yoren with a shrug. “Took three a'the fuckers n' ran out.” His laughter was strong, sounding every year of his old age, but he was a kindly man who looked after the orphans. Frank yet simple, he told the truth of every matter and everyone loved him for it. “Do you think they’ll miss ‘em? Shit their pants if they found out these chickens filled the bellies of homeless lads.”

“I bet.”

Yoren looked at Arya when she spoke. His smile soured. She’d forgotten about her face. He didn’t say anything when he turned to the others, but she read the concern in him and knew he’d want an explanation. “Get in line, you hungry twerps. I’ll dish it out equally.”

 _I should wait until everyone’s eaten first._  Arya shivered as she made her way to a barrel fire and held out her hands for warmth. November was around the corner, and with it the promise of a frigid winter.  _Father would want me to stay warm. Winter is coming, he always said._  She rubbed her hands together, eager to relax now that cage-fighting and Jaqen and drug addicts were things of the past. The wheels in her head began to turn in search of a next move. She’d intended to keep thinking, too, if Hot Pie hadn’t interrupted her. He approached her with wide eyes and a small finger pointed at her face.

“Blimey,” said the fat boy. “What happened to you?”

“Another fight.”

“Did you win?”

“Yep.” Proving her point, and getting enjoyment out of frightening him, Arya spat blood into the fire.

“Wow. That’s… impressive,” muttered Hot Pie. He stared at her for a few moments before moving away slowly, as if she were a viper that would strike at any time. Arya couldn’t resist a laugh.  _Idiot._

When Hot Pie finally left, Arya pulled up a metal folding chair and sat down, withholding groans so no one would know the extent of her injuries. Cold winds rushed through the camp. She shuddered, leaning over to pull her only blanket around her shoulders.  _Jon. Sansa. Home._ She was so close. If only her wounds could heal in seconds like the heroes’ of Rickon’s comic books, if only she could fly and find her family with nothing but her super senses.  _So much could have been avoided…_

“Alright, girl. Time to clean you up.” Arya was startled when Yoren came to her, offering a paper plate of stolen chicken. Worry was written in his frown. “You been at those cages again?”

“Yeah.” She wouldn’t deny it. “But I won. I’m leaving soon.”

“With a black eye?”

“My family can’t wait.” Arya took the food and lifted it to her mouth, letting her eyes flutter closed as the taste of seasoned meat melted on her tongue. “Mmm. This is good. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Yoren pulled up his own chair, glancing over to the group of children to ensure they were out of earshot. “You’re fed, but you’re not well. You can’t find yer sister an’ brother when you can’t even walk straight. Don’t be stupid, girl. I didn’t pull you from that wreck just to have you die.”

Arya swallowed and sighed. She owed him her life, or what little was left of it. As much as she wanted to yell at Yoren and proclaim her independence, she knew better than to turn down sound advice from a man who’d proven his wisdom before. “It’s not that bad,” said Arya. “I’ll be okay in a few days.”

“Not if you don’t get properly patched up.” Yoren gestured to her backpack with his chin. “Bring me some a’those things you’ve got there. I can make sure you’re put back together right, at least, before you leave us.”

Arya couldn’t afford to refuse him. She set her plate on her chair and retrieved some of the first aid supplies from her backpack for Yoren to use. She kept eating while he disinfected the cut on her jaw, dabbed ointment on her black eye and wrapped her ribs over her shirt. He was a good man and wouldn’t ask her to remove her clothing. Arya knew that Yoren was skilled at caring for wounds, too. He’d been in the Night’s Watch, just like Jon. Perhaps that was why she trusted him. When Yoren was finished, Arya thanked him and ate the last of her chicken, feeling satisfied and full, and tossed her paper plate into the fire to burn.

She was too exhausted to stay up for long. Arya settled down in her sleeping bag on a mattress thinner than she was, getting cozy with her head on a pillow made of bundled clothes. She pulled out her journal from her bag and clicked the pen, writing the date on a fresh page to finish her nightly ritual. She began a new entry.

Arya returned her journal to her backpack and shoved it between her mattress and the concrete wall. Routine goodnights passed through the camp, and with the help of painkillers and the warmth of the nearby fire, Arya fell quickly to sleep.

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_She was wild in her dreams. Running, racing. The wind in her fur, the smell of pine trees lingering in the frosty air. She darted across the snow-coated ground in pursuit of a most dangerous prey. He held a cigarette in his hand and blew smoke into the breeze. She could smell the mint. She couldn’t see his face or hear him when he moved, but he stepped away, and she was inclined to follow._

_She could see only fractures of him between the trees, a coat whipping in the wind or the smog of his breath. Gray streaks of hair at his temples. He wasn’t very tall, maybe as tall as a sister she had in another life, but he was far more menacing. She had learned to gauge evil in a man, and she saw it in him, undeniable as the grass and branches beneath her feet. She lowered herself to the ground, hind legs flexed as she prepared to lunge on his back and sink her teeth into his open throat._

_“Cat! Cat, wake up!”_

_The stranger heard the voice. He dropped his cigarette and ran. She wanted to follow him, to snarl at whoever had frightened her prey, but the voice insisted. The howling in the distance was not her own. Barking and shouting made her tail drop, and her ears fell back, and the forest around her was swallowed in darkness._

Hot Pie was shaking her awake. “Cat, get up, get up!”

Arya snatched a flashlight from beside her and crawled out of her sleeping bag, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Her whole body was sore. “Hot Pie, shut up. What’s wrong?”

“W-Wolf,” he moaned. His eyes were wide with terror. “From the sewers.”

“From the—” She groaned. “Hot Pie, there’s not a bloody wolf. Go back to sleep.”

“No, it was there! I saw it, Cat, I swear I did!”

“You’re mental. See?” Arya shined her flashlight toward the maintenance tunnel. “Open your eyes, idiot. There’s nothing there but a…”

_Nothing but a Ghost._

The snow-white German Shepherd was no dream. He bounded toward her and yelped endlessly, stirring everyone in camp. Ghost knocked Arya backwards with giant paws on her chest. “Ghost!” Arya shouted in surprise. “What’s wrong, boy? What are you—” Arya struggled to free herself from the canine’s weight, but when she stood, Ghost darted toward the maintenance tunnel and whined.

She knew.

Only one person could have brought Ghost here.

_Jon._

Arya tore off before Hot Pie could pull her back, pain forgotten. She rounded the corner of the tunnel and raced down the main stretch after Ghost, following his cries until he stopped at a junction. Arya froze to a halt. She heard human groans from the adjacent walkway. Hope bloomed in her chest, and for once in her short life, it was rewarded.

Jon Stark sat wearily against the wall, bleeding. He looked up when he saw her standing there, trembling with two hands on her flashlight. “Arya…?”

“Jon!” Arya cried. She ran to her brother, falling to her knees with her arms around his neck. Jon held her tight as a bear, tight as he could. Arya could hear his shaking breath and knew he was crying too. She didn’t care if his blood stained her clothes or her face. He was here. He was real. Six months of no one, and Jon had come back to her.

He moaned in agony when Arya pulled away. She shined the light on his wounds: a bullet in the shoulder, a split lip like hers. “What happened? Why are you here, aren’t you supposed to be in Afghanistan?”

“Not anymore.” Even though Jon was bleeding, all he did was smile. His hand came up and mussed her hair. “I’m not already dead, am I?”

“No, stupid.” Her tear-stained cheeks hurt from smiling. “You’re not dead and you’re not gonna be.”

“That’s good.” Jon clutched his shoulder with a bloody hand. “That’s really good.”

“Come on, I know someone who can help you.” Arya hooked one arm around Jon’s body for support, but she was much smaller than him and could barely help him on his feet. Somehow, the siblings managed. Jon walked with difficulty, but like the soldier he was, he trudged on. Arya kept him close. Her bones ached and her muscles cried, but all that mattered was her brother’s survival.

He was all she had left.

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**1 NOVEMBER, 2016**

Jon didn’t fight when Yoren tended to him. Arya stayed by his side, helping him bite down on a rag as Yoren removed the bullet from his shoulder. After the wound had been patched and cleaned, Jon fell asleep. Arya remained with him all the while.

She’d stopped sitting obsessively at his side when afternoon came and her stomach growled. Arya would have to fend for herself _and_ Jon for the time being, but luckily for her, a nearby store had what she needed. _Roast beef,_  she’d thought.  _Jon will like that._  She’d even found Kosher dog food for Ghost, ignoring the price when she’d stuffed it in her little bag. As much as it frustrated her to steal to get by, the big corporations could afford to lose some sandwiches and food for a half-starved dog. _Mum would do whatever it took to take care of us,_  thought Arya.  _I can too._

Ghost was more than happy to eat something he recognized. Arya didn’t know what they’d fed him in Afghanistan or wherever else he’d been, but his tail wagged so hard at the sight of dog food that Arya thought it might snap off. She scratched his ear and told him he was a good boy while he ate. Arya returned to her spot by Jon’s side, unwrapping her sandwich and waiting for him to wake up.

 _He looks so different,_ she noticed. Jon’s cheeks weren’t as full as they used to be, his beard and hair grown out longer than he’d ever kept it before. Scars adorned his face from battles unknown and his shoulders were broader with training and muscle. She wondered what Afghanistan was like. The Wall was said to be the strongest military base in the Middle East, and she felt sure that American soldiers would treat men of the Night’s Watch with respect…  _So why did you run?_  Arya wanted answers almost as much as she wanted to hear his voice. She took another bite of her lunch and brought her knees to her chest, troubled.

“How is he?” Yoren asked when he approached. Arya offered a small shrug, swallowing the bite in her mouth. Yoren crouched on his heels beside Jon. He carefully removed the gauze from his wound, examining it with a pensive nod. “Looks clean. Doesn’t smell. No signs of infection yet. Just make sure to keep givin’ ‘im those antibiotics you got.”

“I will.” Arya set her half-eaten sandwich aside and rested her chin on her knees. “I just want him to wake up.”

“Soon. Let him rest. Boy’s been through a lot, I can tell.” Yoren refastened the bandage. “I know what it’s like when the Night’s Watch hunts ya. It’ll be years before they let ‘im go.”

Arya believed him. Yoren had deserted during the war in Vietnam, and the Night’s Watch had chased him for decades. “But we weren’t in that war,” Arya had protested when Yoren told her where he’d served. “No, we weren’t,” he’d sadly replied. “Not officially.” Arya kept her eyes on Jon, wondering what he must have seen that made him forget the honor he’d valued so much.

“I’ll give you some time.” Yoren stood, placing a reassuring hand on Arya’s shoulder before leaving her be. She could hear him rounding up the camp and telling them something about Jon being the victim of a mugging— _not a bad lie, old man_ —and instructing everyone to leave the siblings alone. A smile crossed her lips.  _I should have given him my sandwich._

Hours passed. Arya spent her time petting Ghost, trying to eat and organizing her things for the long road ahead. A tourist’s map of London was draped across her lap and a Sharpie caught between her teeth as she pointed out a few motels she and Jon could stay in. Most of them were on the outskirts of the city, away from wandering eyes and anyone who might be looking for him. She circled a few with her pen and fingered through a guide to check their nightly rates when she heard her brother stir. His eyes opened. Arya was on alert in an instant.

“Arya,” groaned Jon. There were tears in his eyes, and she knew if she looked at him much longer, she’d cry too. “Is that really you?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

Jon’s smile was wide. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” She took his hand in hers so he wouldn’t slip away. Her map was temporarily forgotten. “How do you feel?”

“Better. It hurts, but it’s better.” Jon yawned and lolled his head to the side. Ghost perked his ears when he heard Jon speak, and he reached with his good arm to pet his faithful friend. “Hungry though. Ghost needs to eat too.”

“I already fed him. I got some of that Kosher dog food Father used to buy.” Arya held up the can to show him. “I got you a sandwich, too. Roast beef. Your favorite.”

Jon grinned and thanked her. He tried to push himself up, but the pain was too excruciating and Arya watched his face twist in agony. She let go of his hand to help him, propping up some pillows so he could rest, and offered Jon the sandwich she’d stolen. Ghost curled up at her side.  _Maybe he knows how afraid I am._

“So,” said Jon, looking at Arya as she scratched Ghost behind the ear. “Is this what you’ve been doin’? Sleepin’ under a bridge?”

“Mostly,” said Arya. “I did some fighting. Remember Syrio, my Jujitsu teacher? I used what I learned from him and fought in cages to make money.”

Jon frowned. “Cage fightin’? That’s dangerous.”

“Yeah. But I won.” Arya shrugged. “I won  _a lot._ ”

“How much?”

She glanced over her shoulder. Arya knew none of the others could hear her, but just in case, she whispered her answer in Hebrew.

Jon’s eyes grew wide. “Ten  _thousand?_  Here?”

“Shh! Don’t say it so loud. No one can know.”

Jon rested back on the pillows, mouth agape. “Jesus, Arya. Who’d you kill?”

“I didn’t kill anyone! I just…beat them up a little.”

Jon was worried. Arya could see it in his eyes, but after a moment of silence, brother and sister broke into quiet laughter. Arya retrieved her map and scooted closer to Jon to show him.

“We could stay in a motel until we find Sansa,” she said, just to Jon. “There’s a cheap place east of here. Or we could just look around when we get there if the motel looks shoddy. I’m pretty sure you lost the people who shot you. We should be alright.”

Jon shook his head. “Arya—”

“Sansa’s been missing for _two weeks,_  Jon. She was with the Boltons before that. She could be hurt.”

“I know.” Jon winced, though from the pain or the subject matter, she wasn’t sure. “When I was in Paris, I met someone who helped me get back into the country. She told me about Sansa. It was all over the news, anyway.”

“We’ve got to find her, Jon. I know she’s out there.”

“Yeah. I agree. She’s a fighter like you.” Jon squeezed her hand, his smile no less forlorn. “We’ll find somewhere to stay and keep an ear out for Sansa, and when I’m better, we’ll start looking. Promise.”

“Okay.” Arya sat straighter, filled with confidence from her brother’s support. They could do this, the two of them. They could save what was left. “No matter what, we’re in this together.”

Jon lifted their entwined hands, a symbol of power. “Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I wept 8 tears while writing this chapter. Stark family feels. Getchya every time.  
> I'm sure those of you who follow me on tumblr figured out that Arya was the next POV! I love her. This chapter was really hard to write because it's filled with so many firsts--first Jon/Arya reunion, first Arya POV, first modern fight scene, etc. But I think it turned out alright. :) Let me know what you think.  
> Also, I've thought about making a playlist for this fic to keep you guys occupied between updates! Would you prefer one super long playlist that goes along with the fic itself, or would you prefer a shorter one with some key tunes? If you care at all, I'd love to hear your input. Could be fun to throw one of these together.  
> I don't think there's much else to add here, so I'll let ya go! See you next Saturday. ❤


	4. Do Your Worst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * This chapter has a scene of sexual violence. **There is no rape,** but Sansa recalls some of the things she suffered under Ramsay. It is written with the intention of making the audience uncomfortable. If you don't want to read it, skip the italicized text; you'll know it when you see it.
> 
>   
>  **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[in the night; the weekend](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CbQl98JEbE)] ◆ [[before the old gods; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTp3OOAGQK4)] ◆ [[chandelier - acoustic; sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0e_3aIqkcGQ)]   
> 

   


  
**1 NOVEMBER, 2016**

Of all the places in Petyr’s home, the library was Sansa’s uncontested favorite. She could sit for hours surrounded by mahogany shelves and the stories they carried. She’d found her own special place in the seat of a bay window that overlooked the gardens, crowned in dormant wisteria. It was far too cold to sit outside among the flowers, as November was promising a ruthless winter, but Sansa still admired what foliage remained from the warmth of her secret window. Books and solitude were her peace.

Sometimes, Sansa would sit with her new laptop, checking the social media she’d been forced to abandon under Bolton imprisonment. Her Twitter, Instagram and Facebook were swamped with old messages inquiring to her wellbeing, from school friends to teachers to her parents’ past colleagues. But none of them had thought to investigate her absence. None of them worried so much to think of calling the police, not even Jeyne, who’d assumed she was in mourning and didn’t want to be disturbed. Sansa couldn’t respond to any of the messages, but she could read them, and while she appreciated the new waves of support, she wondered if any of her “friends” would notice if she never resurfaced at all.

Most days, Sansa kept busy reading. Petyr had given her a long list of books as a replacement for the final year of school she was missing. History, philosophy, chemistry, anatomy and politics were the main subjects Petyr insisted she learn. An odd group, perhaps, but Sansa enjoyed them. Studying made her feel normal again. Petyr would sit down with her at the end of every book and review what she’d learned, trade opinions with her and go over the most important facts. Those were her favorite times. Sitting with Petyr by the fireplace in the living room, talking late into the night about her subjects of focus. Their topics ranged drastically, but it was nice to witness his intelligence firsthand.  _He would have been a good teacher,_  Sansa thought,  _if he’d chosen education instead of… whatever he does._

Sansa had just turned a page in her book when Petyr came to her. It wasn’t quite noon, but already the sun was high and clinging to the last weeks of autumn. “You look busy,” said Petyr, announcing himself. Sansa smiled at the sound of his voice. He sat down by her feet at the opposite end of the window, wearing a fitted gray suit and smelling pleasantly of cologne.

“I’m just reading,” said Sansa. “Not too busy.” Her eyes wandered over Petyr when they lifted from the pages. He seemed different from his typical business-casual aura, handsome in a strange way, like he was some sort of… _what does he look like?_  She shifted awkwardly. “You look really nice.”

“Business requires it. First impressions are everything, Sansa, never let anyone tell you otherwise.” He gestured with his chin to the book in her hands. “What are you reading?”

She closed the book to show him the title,  _The Count of Monte Cristo._  “You told me it was your favorite, so I picked it up last week. I’ve been reading it between  _Republic_  and  _Utopia._ ”

“I’m honored that you remembered.” Petyr smiled as he watched her place a bookmark between the pages.  _Smiles look good on him._  “Do you enjoy it so far?”

“I do!” Sansa placed the book aside and swung her feet to dangle above the floor. Talking about books always got her excited. “I’m at the part where Edmond just confronted Villefort and tried to resuscitate the child he killed, but he fails. He’s wondering if he’s gone too far with his revenge.”

“Ah, the crisis. The saddest part of any story, if the ending doesn’t out-do it.” Petyr scratched the stubble on his cheek. “‘Oh God, said Monte Cristo, your vengeance may sometimes be slow in coming, but I think that then it is all the more complete.’ This book has a wonderful ending. I hope you like it as much as I did.”

“Me too.” Sansa placed her hands in her lap. Petyr picked up the pile of books behind her and skimmed through the titles, and she watched him move, vaguely aware of the pride in his eyes.

“Machiavelli. Another necessity.” He slid his fingertips down the spine of  _The Prince._  “I’m glad you’ve stashed this one away. It’s a good read, important for every intelligent mind to have an opinion on.”

“Mum hated it,” chuckled Sansa. “She said it was misguided literature based on bias and cynicism.”

“That sounds like your mother,” said Petyr. “Ever the optimist. But I would very much like to hear your thoughts on it, Sansa, whenever you find the time.” He placed the books down on his opposite side. He patted the top of the stack as if it were a small child. “I still want you to put priority on your recovery. Knowledge is nothing without a healthy mind to wield it.”

“I am.” A little smile took her lips. “I really feel like I’ve made progress.”

“You’re still having those daily sessions with Ros and Olyvar?”

“Mhm.” Sansa curled her hair behind her ear and crossed her ankles. “I've learned so many different things. Like, I didn’t know that…”  _He probably doesn’t want to hear._  “Oh, nevermind.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

Petyr removed his hand from the books and gently directed her chin toward him. Sansa didn’t flinch at the touch. She’d gotten used to his hands in various places, from her shoulders to her arms to her cheeks and upper back. But he was never pushy, never moved lower than she allowed, and Sansa didn’t fear him or his warmth. Not yet, at least. “You needn’t hide things from me, Sansa. I care about you.”

Sansa had heard those words before, but they felt genuine coming from him. She took Petyr’s wrist and moved his hand away, a gesture he took with grace. “I just…I didn’t think talking about it would help so much. Or, you know. Crying.”

He lowered his hand to his lap. “That can be helpful, I’ve heard.” Petyr seemed uncomfortable, his eyes distant. Sansa wanted to ask if she’d said something wrong, but she never got the chance. Petyr stood from the window and offered his hand to her. “It is good, then, that I have other things in mind for today besides speaking of your sorrow. Come. I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” Sansa took his hand and walked with him from the library, feeling his palm press against the center of her back. Petyr walked beside her toward the spiral stairs at the manor’s entrance, and turned on his heel to face her.

“I have a few very important meetings today, Sansa. Meetings that will take Ros and I away until late this evening. Mayana and Olyvar also have tasks to carry out, but none of us want you left here alone.” Petyr placed his hands on either side of her arms. Her back straightened. “If you would like, you can go with the others to London and sit in on their meeting. You’ve been cooped up in my home for too long. Two weeks in the same place, no matter the scenery, can wear on a person.” Petyr's mouth quirked in amusement. “Maybe you can get a taste of what I do for a living.”

“London?” Sansa smiled, rejuvenated by the thought of something familiar. “I — yes, I’d love to go. Your house is beautiful, but I miss the city. And I won’t ruin the meeting. I promise.”

Petyr returned her warm expression. “I knew you’d be pleased. But there is a condition.” From his pocket, he retrieved a small tube of black  _something_  and held it up to her. Sansa took it, rolling the plastic curiously in her hand.

“What is it?”

“Black hair dye. Don’t worry, it’s only temporary.” He took a strand of her auburn hair between thumb and forefinger. “Yours is a memorable shade, my dear, and I haven’t gathered enough evidence to keep the Boltons from taking you away from me. Until then, you’ll need to dye your hair whenever you leave the estate. You’ll go by the name Alayne.”

“Alayne,” Sansa repeated.

“You will speak to no one other than Mayana and Olyvar. I know you’ve a kind heart, but put it aside for the sake of safety today.”

Sansa felt valued by his concern. He was always so generous, so worried for her wellbeing. It had been a long time since someone cherished her so. “I’ll be alright,” she said. “It’s just London. And I’ll have your friends with me, so I’ll be safe.”

“Of course you will.” Petyr leaned in and kissed her forehead, a paternal act he was prone to. Sansa felt her face flush. He removed his hands from her when he pulled away. “I will see you tonight, if you’re still awake. Mayana and Olyvar are certain to make your day eventful.”

“Thank you, Petyr. I look forward to it.”

Leaving him was always awkward. There was a tense moment every time, where they’d stand and wait for the other to continue a conversation that was clearly finished. Whether it was from want of a new topic or a desire to be around him, Sansa didn’t know, but Ros thankfully broke the strange air in the room when she entered. She looked like a model business executive in heels and a cream-colored blouse. “Wow,” said Sansa. “You look beautiful.”

“Aw, you’re too sweet. I’d give my left tit if I could be half as gorgeous as you though.” Ros winked, slipping her arm in Petyr’s as Sansa smiled sheepishly. “See you later, love. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Have fun.” Sansa waved to them both. Petyr’s departing stare was not missed, and her stomach was in knots when he closed the door behind him.

His effect on her was dangerous. Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she was attracted to anyone, let alone wanted someone to touch her. The concept was horrifying.  _I’ll just get anxious if I think about it._  Instead of needlessly questioning herself, Sansa headed up the stairs to prepare for a London afternoon, putting all thoughts of Petyr away.

Mayana and Olyvar were sitting on her bed. They were talking about something over wine, expensively dressed like Ros and Petyr had been. Sansa paused when her friends looked at her with a mischievous glint in their eyes. “What are you two plotting in here?”

“How to make you look stunning.” Olyvar held up the Dior box with the dress Petyr had given her and tapped it. “Take a shower, dye your hair, and wear this.” He tossed the box to her. She caught it, blinking at the beautiful people who’d seemingly transformed. Olyvar wore a blue suit with a dotted tie, and Mayana was charming in a magenta blouse and black skirt that hugged her lower frame. His hair was slicked back, her braids tied up in a formal bun. Sansa stood aghast.

“You both look incredible,” she said. “What are we doing at this meeting? Modeling?”

“Telling you spoils the fun!” Mayana dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Go on, pretty girl. Get dressed. We leave in an hour.”

Sansa beamed. There was mystery in the air, but it was exciting instead of frightening. Sansa took the dress and the dye in-hand, rushing off to the bathroom that connected hers and Olyvar’s rooms.

The dye smelled disgusting, but it certainly did the job. Sansa cleaned herself and washed her hair with what Petyr gave her. She barely recognized herself when she stepped out of the shower. Dark hair was one of the many Stark traits that had skipped her entirely. It was odd, looking in the mirror at someone who could have been real if her genetics had lined up differently. It wasn’t the first time she’d imagined herself in a new body, either.

Sansa dressed in what was given — the Dior dress, black nylons and heels with a violet scarf — and Mayana and Olyvar came in to dote on her. Sansa let them dry her hair and braid it in a crown atop her head. Being spoiled was something Sansa loved as a little girl, a stupid girl who didn’t know the world from a fairytale, but to have a touch of that childish hope again struck another spark in her soul, in contrast to the wasteland.

Another broken piece on the mend.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

London felt safer as a free woman. The sky was clearer, the colors were brighter and the people were friendlier, less prone to staring. Mayana and Olyvar were tremendous company. They bantered and bickered and cracked obscene jokes in public, making bystanders turn their heads to the small flock of friends who were dressed too richly to be messed with. They stopped in a few stores and bought Sansa some business-formal attire for future outings. Sansa tried to ignore the price tags. “Don’t worry,” Mayana told her, “he likes to spoil you.” While Sansa was nervous about being recognized, the reassurance of her companions helped put her mind at ease. _It’s only a day. No one knows who I am._

Where it was impossible before, Sansa allowed herself to relax.

“So,” said Olyvar from across the table. The three had stopped at an open café down the street, grazing on salad and finger foods as they waited for Petyr’s client. “What are your hobbies, Alayne? Christmas is around the corner and we need an idea of what to get you. Clothes alone won’t cut it.”

Sansa hadn’t even considered the holiday, but Olyvar’s hope that she would still be with them made her grin. “Christmas? Oh, I don’t know. Uhm…I like playing the guitar. My brother Robb taught me, we used to play together all the time.” Her hands fumbled beneath the table. “And I like painting, though I'm not very good at it. My mother was an artist. Oh, and cooking. And sewing. Singing, reading, fashion…”

“Aw!” Mayana put her hand dramatically over her heart. “She’s adorable. We’re keeping her.”

“I don’t think that was ever in doubt.” Olyvar took a sip of water. “Littlefinger likes her. I like her, Ros likes her, you like her. She’s smart, clever, and more importantly, she’s coming out of her shell. Why would we let her go now?” He showed Sansa a handsome smile, one that surely made men weak. “I’d love to hear a song sometime. I bet your voice is lovely. Lovelier than mine, anyway.”

Sansa chuckled. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“It’s bad,” said Mayana. “He’s tone deaf.”

“I am not! Just a tad confused on how notes sound. Sometimes.” Olyvar set his glass on the table. “But it’s not our choice whether Alayne goes or stays. She has a home here with us, and she can leave if and when she desires.”

“Never.” Sansa cleared her throat. “I mean, not  _never_ , but not any time soon. You’re all I have.” She frowned, nearly biting her lower lip before remembering her makeup. “Do you think that would be alright with him…?”

“Are you joking?” Olyvar scoffed. “Please. The man adores you. If you can’t see that, you’re not as bright as I—”

“Shit.” Mayana glanced up to Sansa from her phone. Her eyes read of distress. Sansa’s smile fell. Mayana showed Olyvar the screen, and he paled at whatever he saw. “What are we gonna do? We can’t bring her there with us.”

“Hold on. I’m thinking.”

Sansa shifted in her seat. Her heart began to pound in her head. She knew they were talking about her, but she didn’t want to ask and disrupt them as they whispered to each other. She felt like a burden.  _They have my best interest at heart, don’t they? They wouldn’t put me in danger._

“We have a problem,” said Mayana, voice lower than usual. “The client we’re meeting has changed where we’re supposed to negotiate.”

“Is that bad?” asked Sansa.

“Not for us. For you, it could be.” Mayana glanced to Olyvar. “It’s, uh. It’s at the Bolton head office.”

Sansa fell speechless. She dropped her fork on the plate as she tried to comprehend what Mayana was telling her.

Bolton headquarters. The Boltons. _Ramsay._

“We can’t take her,” said Olyvar. “Look at her. She’s terrified.”

“We can’t reschedule. Littlefinger never reschedules. Remember the last time we tried? He made us do community service in the sewers for a month.”

“Yes, but this is Alayne. Would one misstep really cause that much fuss? The man has got to have some mistake in his past.”

“Not in the sixteen years I’ve known him.”

Their voices fell away. Sansa’s breath began to race and she shivered at the thought of seeing  _him_  again, but he never went to the head office. He was always at home. With her. Or Myranda, doing God-knew-what in the basement at all hours of the day. _I can be strong,_  Sansa thought, unsure if she believed it.  _I’m better than I was before. Mayana and Olyvar will protect me, right?_

Sansa summoned her confidence. “It’s alright. He—” _Don’t be afraid of a name._  “Ramsay probably won’t be there. I’ll wear sunglasses through the lobby and I won’t talk to anyone, just like Petyr said.”

Mayana looked nervously to Olyvar. “Pete’s gonna kill us if this goes to hell. It’ll be Spain but worse.”

“I don’t think we have a choice. We both have to be there for the signing and we can’t just leave Alayne in the car like a dog. The Boltons would like nothing more.”

“Yeah. I get it.” Mayana checked her phone again, her leg bouncing under the table. “Ugh, fuck.” She stood and left a cash payment for their lunch on top of the receipt and picked up her briefcase, contents unknown, from beside her chair. “Alayne, I want you to keep close to Olyvar. You’re his wife or something. And his name isn’t Olyvar, it’s Liam. I’m Abigail.”

“Okay,” muttered Sansa. Olyvar motioned for them to leave. She stood from her seat and tried to fake bravery.

_I’m bigger than this,_  Sansa told herself on the drive to the Bolton building.  _He won’t be there. I’m stronger than him anyway._  London passed by through the windows of the truck, a blur of skyscrapers and storefronts and British flags. The city was losing its color again.

“Sansa,” said Mayana after parking down a deserted alley. “There’s something you need to understand about these meetings. You might hear things that confuse you. We’ll talk differently, present differently. It’s almost like being a whole new person, but it’s all a part of the act, yeah? So don’t… freak out. I promise it'll all make sense soon.”

“Okay,” Sansa whispered. She didn’t lie and tell them she’d be fine.

Olyvar helped Sansa out of the truck, squeezing her fingers in encouragement. “You don’t mind if I hold your hand, do you?” he asked. “We’re supposed to be married.”

“Huh? O-Oh, right.” She took Olyvar’s hand and stayed close to him as directed, putting on sunglasses to avoid the security cameras.

Seeing the Bolton logo made her squirm. There was a large amount of people in the lobby, but Sansa was too focused on keeping calm to wonder why. ID’s were exchanged, including that of “Alayne”, before the three of them were given clearance badges and proceeded to the elevators. They ascended to the twenty-sixth floor. Sansa clutched Olyvar's arm and he kissed the side of her head to soothe her. It didn’t make her feel warm like Petyr’s kisses did, but she felt safer, which was all that mattered.

The lift stopped at the financial floor. They stepped off and passed the front desk. Sansa didn’t bother to remind them to check-in; this clearly wasn’t a typical business meeting. They walked to a pair of oak double doors down a long, extravagant hallway, where a gold plaque was mounted on the wall.

  


Sansa held her breath. She’d met Barbrey Dustin before, only briefly when she’d come to the Bolton house to discuss business with Roose. It wasn’t likely that Sansa would be recognized. Barbrey had looked her over, referred to her as “that Lord Idiot’s daughter” and gone back to her conversation.  _What does Petyr want with her?_

Mayana and Olyvar entered without knocking. Sansa followed suit, remembering her promise of silence.

Barbrey’s office was luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows, glass sculptures and black leather seating made a show of her position. Mrs. Dustin lifted her head when she noticed her visitors. Mayana closed the door behind Olyvar and locked it. “Ah,” said Barbrey from her desk. “You must be Littlefinger’s associates.” She was an older woman, with streaks of gray in her chestnut hair and wrinkles around large green eyes. Regal for her age, dignified in the way she sat. Sansa expected nothing less in a woman who worked under Roose Bolton. Barbrey looked the three of them over. “Didn’t think there’d be so many of you.”

Mayana shrugged. “When you change plans, so do we.”

“Yes,” Barbrey confirmed. “Sorry about that. Normally I wouldn’t yank the mockingbird’s wing, but I’d rather pull his than Roose’s.”

“We understand.” Olyvar led Sansa to one of two chairs in front of the desk. She sat down and removed her sunglasses, careful not to meet Barbrey’s eyes directly. Olyvar stood behind Sansa with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Mayana took the other chair. “Mind if I check some things, Mrs. Dustin?”

“Check what?”

They didn’t wait for an answer. Olyvar unplugged the phone and computer on Barbrey’s desk. Mayana pulled something from her pocket, a strange piece of technology, and pushed a button. “Blocking any unwanted ears,” she explained. She placed it on the desk and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “We can’t risk being overheard. Not with this.”

“Of course.” Barbrey straightened her back to regain her authority. “Did you bring the truth, then?”

Mayana retrieved her briefcase. She clicked it open, pulling out a stapled packet and sliding it across the top of Barbrey’s desk. “Roose Bolton paid Doctor Qyburn fifty-thousand pounds to tamper with evidence. Even the autopsy report was faked. Ramsay killed your nephew.”

_Domeric,_  Sansa remembered.  _Ramsay’s older brother. The nice one. He liked horses and snuck me books when I’d cry._

Domeric had gone missing two weeks into her capture. Now Sansa knew why.

Barbrey worked her jaw. She reached for the paperwork and skimmed through it, through photos of a crime scene and some sort of graph. Sansa couldn’t see much through the paper. Tense silence fell between them, made unbearable by the amount of time that passed. Barbrey let the papers fall when she tossed them back on her desk with a slap. “That little  _bastard._ ”

“We can understand your disappointment,” said Olyvar. “Domeric was more fit to inherit this corporation than Ramsay. For that, Littlefinger mourns your nephew’s loss.”

“And why does a monster like Littlefinger care so much about this company?” Barbrey folded her hands in her lap, eyes critical. “He doesn’t hold stock here, does he?”

“Not anymore.” Mayana’s lip twitched. “Complications arose.”

“Littlefinger’s interest in the Boltons’ industry has less to do with business and more to do with the family.” Olyvar squeezed Sansa’s shoulder and leisurely paced the room, much like Petyr would during his late-night lessons. “Roose has proven his inability to rein in his son. Ramsay was abusing the Stark girl and killed his own brother, and a man who can’t control a child like that isn’t fit to remain CEO. Littlefinger prefers someone more trustworthy. More ethical, if you will.” He glanced to Barbrey. “Someone like you.”

Sansa recognized desire in Barbrey's eyes. How Petyr knew what she’d wanted baffled Sansa. She watched the wheels in Barbrey’s head turn, considering the offer Petyr had laid on the table. “He would give me control of one of the most profitable businesses in the UK? Why?”

“Because we share a mutual enemy,” said Mayana. “You want revenge for your nephew. Littlefinger wants the Boltons out of power. We can take care of both.”

“In exchange for?”

Olyvar shrugged. “Just a bit of embezzlement. The Boltons won’t need all their money in the grave.”

Barbrey laughed, twirling a pen in her fingers. “You want me to feed Littlefinger someone else’s money so I can have everything that I want?” Barbrey clicked the pen. “That’s hardly a deal I can pass up.”

“I’m glad you share his thoughts on the matter. Abigail, would you give her the contract?”

“With pleasure.” Sansa watched Mayana pulled a piece of paper from her briefcase. She approached Barbrey and placed it on the desk, her dark hand covering the words. Mrs. Dustin smiled without a single stroke of humor.

“What is this?” she asked. “Some sort of show?”

“Not at all. Just making sure you understand what you’re doing.” Mayana pushed the contract closer to Barbrey, never losing eye contact. “Signing this piece of paper means you work for Littlefinger, with Littlefinger and by Littlefinger’s leave. You understand the benefits of this arrangement and the consequences of failure. Your life, your family’s lives, your belongings, your property; nothing will be off-limits to him if you turn your back on this contract.”

Barbrey, unfazed, brushed off Mayana’s warning. “Awfully serious lot, aren’t you? Move your bloody hand. I know what I’m doing.”

Mayana did as Mrs. Dustin asked. Sansa was not so confident. The contract, now signed, was offered from one agent of Littlefinger to another for a second signature. Olyvar added his name and placed the paper back in the briefcase.  _Manipulation,_  Sansa thought.  _Backstabbing and crime. This is Petyr’s job._ Would she ever be free of people like him?

“Now,” said Barbrey, “get out of my office. I have work to do.” She leaned down to plug in her computer again. “If you’ve any wit about you, you’ll take care of that little shit while he’s here.”

Sansa tensed. She gripped the arm of the chair and Mayana and Olyvar exchanged looks. “Ramsay’s here? Now?”

“Unfortunately. Delivering a press conference about the disappearance of Sansa Stark. Twenty-ninth floor, I think.”

_Ramsay. Here. With me._

Sansa heard nothing else and stood without warning. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Dustin. I hope you choose better allies than the Boltons in the future.” She passed Mayana and yanked open the door, escaping before she could be stopped.

Sansa put on her sunglasses and tried to seem casual without sacrificing speed. She made it to the lift and pressed the down arrow. “Come on,” she muttered. “Come on, come on.”  _It’s not fast enough._  Her heart thundered like a drum. She jammed the button again, pressing frantically over and over as she began to panic. Her whole body shook. A TV screen caught her eye from the corner, a fanfare announcing important news coverage. Sansa turned to the oncoming broadcast.

Ramsay stood tall and confident at a podium, the headline “RAMSAY BOLTON PLEADS FOR STARK'S RETURN” running underneath.

“My lovely fiancée has gone missing,” Ramsay said to the press. “The world has been cruel to her. It makes sense that she ran away in fear of our coming marriage, but she knows I would never harm her.”

Sansa was going to be sick. She clutched her stomach and stood paralyzed, reading the word “LIVE” at the top left of the screen.

Live. In the press room.

Three stories above her.

“I am offering a reward for whoever finds her,” said Ramsay. “She is still a minor in the eyes of the law, meaning her options are rather limited. Someone may try to steal her for her father’s inheritance. I can’t think of a worse fate for my beautiful bride-to-be. I implore you, good people of London, if you have any leads on her whereabouts please report directly to me or my father. I will personally give twenty-thousand pounds to whomever brings information that leads to her recovery.”

Sansa gasped as Mayana grabbed her arm. “Don’t ever run like that,” Mayana scolded through gritted teeth. “We’re the only protection you’ve got.”

“I’m — I’m sorry,” Sansa stuttered, near tears. “I didn’t — I can’t be here, he’s not supposed to—”

“I know. We’ll get you home. Stay calm.”

Olyvar leaned in to Mayana’s ear. Sansa overheard what he said: “Petyr’s going to _butcher_  us.”

Sansa's eyes were fixed on Ramsay. As if he knew she was there, he turned and looked directly at her through the camera.

“My dearest Sansa. If you’re watching this, please know that I miss you terribly. But don’t worry for a single second. I am determined to find you. And soon, I’ll bring you back where you belong.”

The press conference came to an end. Sansa was left trembling. Mayana and Olyvar guided her down the stairs, deciding it was safer to avoid the elevators entirely. “Breathe,” urged Mayana. “We’re almost to the car. Breathe.”

But all Sansa could hear was his voice.  _I’ll bring you back where you belong._

Sansa was wordless during the ride home. She did not eat dinner. She did not smile. She dismissed herself to bed shortly after sunset, stripping from her expensive dress and barely remembering to hang it up. Sansa felt touched. Filthy. Even here, in this room, a place where Ramsay had never been. She pulled on a tank top and crawled under the blankets, taking her mother’s rosary with her, and prayed until she forgot the meaning of the words.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

_The bars were unbroken. Moonlight bled between them. Sansa woke on the sheets, wet and red under her skin. She recognized her prison in the darkness. It was the same as it always was. Colorless. Lifeless. “Not here,” Sansa whimpered. “Anywhere but here, please God, please…”_

_“God?” said Ramsay from the doorway. “_ I’m _your god, Sansa.”_

_She scrambled from the bed. Her clothes burned away from her body. When she reached for them, they slipped through her fingers like ash._

_“Why did you leave me, Sansa?” Ramsay’s voice sent chills through every bone. “That wasn’t very nice.”_

_“I can’t leave you if I was never yours,” she spat. She covered her body with her hands, ashamed._

_“But you are! You_ are _mine. You have been for so long. I can’t wait until you’re here again.” Ramsay began his approach like a shadow, a wrench hanging from his loosened grip. He gestured to the bed, sheets stained with blood and cum and chunks of red hair. “This place has so many wonderful memories. Don’t you want to come home?”_

_The sight of it broke her. Her skin remembered the feel of those sheets, the fluids, tears dripping on clenched fists. She couldn’t pull her eyes from it._

_Ramsay backed her into a corner. Sansa cried out as spiders slipped from cracks in the walls and crawled all over her body, their legs touching everywhere he had once touched. “No,” Sansa begged. She choked on words of defiance. “You can’t have me, this isn’t real!”_

_“Isn’t it?” Ramsay’s smile grew wide. “Shall we find out?”_

_“You can't touch me.”_

_He laughed then, a maniacal sound like the scream of a raven. “I’m touching you now. Can’t you feel it? All those little spiders all over you, claiming you.” Ramsay stepped forward until they were inches apart, his sickening lips close to hers._ “I’m inside your head.”

_She clenched her eyes shut and whimpered as the insects began to bite. “This is a dream. I’ll wake up soon, and when I do you’ll be gone.”_

_Ramsay’s mouth brushed hers. He tasted of bile. “We’ll see.”_

_He struck her over the head with the wrench. Sansa fell to the ground and curled up, her world spinning, voices calling out to her that she couldn’t answer. “Sansa,” they cried. “Sansa, wake up!” She only wanted it to end._

_Ramsay gripped her hard at the hips. Sansa heard his belt unbuckle. She fell limp and lifeless, resigning to suffer if it meant she could fight another day._

Her eyes flew open. He was on her, on top of her, pinning her down. “No!” she screamed. “Get off me, get off!” Sansa shoved Ramsay away and reached her trembling hands to the nightstand drawer, where she’d hidden a knife just for him. “Don’t touch me! You can’t, I—”

Petyr held his hands in the air. His eyes were wide.

_Not Ramsay,_  she realized in shame. _Petyr. Just Petyr._

She dropped the knife. It clamored to the floor. Sansa looked at her hands, palms bleeding from her nails in her skin.  _A dream, that’s all it was. He came to wake me…_

“P-Petyr, I’m — I-I didn’t — I didn't know—”

“It’s alright.” He reached out to her. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

Sansa burst into tears. She still felt the spiders on her skin, crawling in her lungs, between her legs,  _inside_  her. Petyr stepped forward. Seeking comfort, Sansa rushed into his open arms and wept and shook. “You’re alright,” said Petyr softly. His voice vibrated through his chest and it comforted her. “You’re not there. You’re here. On the outskirts of London, in my home, with me. Do you understand?”

She didn’t have the strength to nod.

Petyr slowly pulled away. Sansa whimpered in protest, but he crawled onto the middle of her bed and took off his shoes. “Come here, Sansa. I won’t hurt you.”

“Careful,” said another voice.  _Ros._  “She’s so fragile.”

Petyr leaned back against the headboard and motioned for Sansa to come to him. She did, trembling and curling up at his side, desperate for the security he’d never hesitated to offer. “Get her some Diazepam and a glass of water,” said Petyr. “Bandages and alcohol for her hands. And a pillow for my back would be appreciated.”

“Sure.” Ros left the room. Sansa wanted to see if Mayana and Olyvar were there too, if she needed to apologize for ruining a good night’s sleep, but Petyr held her tight and she would not fight him. Her body was weak, weary and drained. At least the spiders had skittered away.

Sansa couldn’t stop crying as she clung to Petyr. She wept for her parents and brothers, for Robb and Talisa and unborn Ned Stark, for what Ramsay took from her, for Arya and Jon who could be dead or dying or worse. She wept for what was and could never be. For the home she’d lost. For the life she’d been forced to leave behind, and her innocence with it. For everything she would never have again.

Time passed. Sansa took the pills and water Ros offer, and rested her head back on Petyr when she was done. Her weeping faded to small cries and sniffles into his stained shirt. Someone came and wrapped Sansa’s hands. She barely felt the alcohol. She was briefly aware of them talking, all four of them, Ros and Olyvar and Mayana and Petyr, but she was too tired to hear them.  _I’m sorry,_  she tried to say.  _I’m sorry I woke you. I’m sorry for everything._  But her words slipped away under the medicine’s influence, and Sansa was pulled into a dreamless sleep.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**2 NOVEMBER, 2016**

Petyr was gone when she woke. Sansa’s eyes cracked open, groggy and aching under the mid-morning sun. She tried to sit up. The world began to pulse and spin and she held her head, groaning. “Shh,” whispered Ros, placing gentle hands over Sansa’s. “Don’t move too fast, love. Easy.”

She came upright with Ros’s help. Sansa blinked, adjusting her eyes to the sunlight seeping through flowery curtains. Water was offered. Sansa took it and slowly drank until her body and mind fully woke, and she remembered what had happened.

_Night terrors. I woke everyone._  She remembered it all, even the dream itself, and the warmth that held her afterward.

“She’s awake,” said Ros into the house phone. “She’s ready for you.” Ros hung up and moved to sit at Sansa’s side. She wrapped an arm around her, and Sansa rested her head on her shoulder. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Any better?”

“A bit,” Sansa replied. Oh, how nice it was to be held. Ros rubbed her upper arm and kissed the top of her head. The affection they all showed for her was sweeter than any pill. They stayed like that for a long time, in a maternal position that reminded her of her mother, until the door to Sansa’s bedroom opened. Olyvar held a tray of breakfast in his hands. He brought it to Sansa with a sympathetic smile. Petyr entered smoking a cigarette, wearing the same clothes he’d worn the night before, and Mayana came in after. She closed the door behind them. Sansa smiled as much as she could in the company of people who cared for her, despite the inconvenience she’d put them through. “I’m sorry,” Sansa mumbled. Her throat began to sting again.  _Don’t cry._  “I’m so sorry, I woke all of you up in the middle of the night and I shouldn’t have. I couldn’t stop it.”

“Don’t apologize,” soothed Olyvar. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“We should never have taken you there.” Mayana sighed in disappointment, resting her hands on her hips. “Should’ve just rescheduled. It was Barbrey Dustin, not the damn Prime Minister.”

“No, I… it was me.” Sansa felt another tear fall and wiped it away quickly. “I thought I was strong enough. I wasn’t. I’m not strong at all.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Mayana came closer, and Sansa looked up at her. “You got your things together in a tiny-ass bag and ran away from that monster. You looked for safety when there really wasn’t an option for you. You’re strong as hell, don’t doubt that.”

“I concur.” Ros rubbed Sansa’s arm again, but it was clear she was distressed. “I think we should make today nice and relaxing for you, yeah? A long hot bath, some good comedy films, maybe a bit of Cards Against Humanity?”

“God,” groaned Olyvar. “I’ll need to be drunk for that one.”

Sansa managed to chuckle. Her aged soul lightened in load, and she wiped the tears that spilled down her cheeks. Ros handed her some tissues. Sansa thanked Olyvar when he offered her homemade pancakes, lathered with sweet syrup and butter and whipped cream. She even smiled at the poor excuse for a face he’d tried to cook into the center. “It looks like shit,” he said, “but at least its edible.” Sansa was grateful to all of them, her friends, her caretakers. But it was Petyr’s voice she wanted to hear.

He remained silent. Petyr was leaning against her door with his arms crossed, smoking a cigarette with an aura of indifference. His hair was unkempt, eyes bearing dark circles underneath and his grey-green stare wasn’t in the present. _I drew a knife on him._  She set down her fork and cleared her throat. “Petyr—”

“Don’t.” He stared at her. Sansa felt deflated, fearing his anger. Petyr approached the four of them and dropped what remained of his cigarette in the glass of water she wasn’t drinking. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of Sansa, somber and contemplative, almost confused. It occurred to her that the only people he cared about must all be sitting before him. They were like a family, odd and mismatched though they were. Maybe they could be as strong as the one she’d lost, someday.

“The dream,” said Petyr. “Was it about him?”

Sansa nodded. “I was… I was back in that room, and—”

“You don’t have to share.” Petyr shook his head. “Quite frankly, Sansa, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Oh. Okay.”  _I’m sorry._  Sansa wasn’t hungry anymore. She set the tray down on her nightstand before settling beside Ros again. She felt small and foolish, like she was being punished for breaking a rule. She opened her mouth to speak. Petyr interrupted her again.

“I’ve lied to you, Sansa. I’ve withheld the truth.” He took her gaze and held it. “You were meant to be present for the meeting with Barbrey, but not like that.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Why? I thought it was just a day out.”

“It would have been. You were only supposed to observe, not walk right into Ramsay’s open arms. I'm sorry my idiot employees put you in danger.”

Mayana and Olyvar shared a nervous glance. Sansa wrung her hands in her lap, and spoke up in their defense. “Don’t punish them, please. They got me out. They helped me. It was my fault like I said, they just—”

“It is  _not. Your. Fault._ ” Petyr’s voice was stern, but not without tenderness. His hand came to rest on her knee, his thumb tracing slow circles on the inside. “Say it.”

She swallowed hard. “It’s not my fault,” she mumbled.

“Louder.”

“It’s not my fault.” Sansa straightened her spine. Saying the words made her believe them, which was surely his intention. Petyr nodded in approval when he was sure she understood.

“I’m going to tell you the truth, Sansa. Are you ready to hear it?”

She bit her lip. Sansa was afraid he’d be so angry with her that he’d kick her back out on the street, but deep down she knew he wouldn’t let that happen. She was ready to face whatever he presented her with. “Yes.”

Petyr took a deep breath.

“I own the western world. Nearly every politician, every wealthy businessman, every influential celebrity and authority in civilized nations sits pretty in my pocket. I make money with their secrets. I expose people when it suits me, I use them when it suits me and I kill them when it suits me.” He met her eyes. As ridiculous as it sounded, Sansa believed every word. “When I told you we were going to kill the Boltons, I didn’t mean carrying out a hit. That’s far too easy. Not personal enough. I want their corporation to  _burn._  I want every stockholder to go bankrupt. I want every person who ever held a job at their industry to never make working wages again. I want Cersei and Tywin Lannister buried in a landfill. But it’s one thing to want revenge and another to carry it out, and understand, my dear, that I am the only man capable of making these things happen for us.” He reached for her cheek and brushed a tear away. “That was what I truly meant by ‘making them pay.’”

Sansa blinked. There was shock in her, as well as a flicker of fear, but not nearly as much as there should have been. She looked to the others and saw their looks of confirmation. “You all do this?” she asked. “All four of you?”

“Not for his whole career,” said Mayana. “We came later. I was the first. Met him sixteen years ago in Chicago, where I'm from. He took me in. Taught me, raised me, helped me. Then came Ros.”

“I’ve been here since 2007,” Ros added. “I was working the streets selling my body. He showed me a better way.”

“I was the most recent acquisition.” Olyvar folded his hands in his lap. “Five years ago, he found me while I was at university. Here I am.”

_And now there’s me._  Sansa put each unnerving piece together in her mind. He’d found these people and raised them from nothing.  _Almost like a cult._  “The books,” she muttered. “Philosophy, anatomy, politics… all of it was for this. To teach me.”

Petyr nodded.

“Teach me what?”

“How to play the game.” He smiled then, a dark smile that spoke of years of deception and danger. “It’s how I’ve made a living. It is the identity of Littlefinger. I would have brought this to you sooner, but taking less direct routes to get what I want has always come easier to me.”

“He’s a manipulative prick,” said Olyvar. “That’s what he’s trying to say.”

Petyr didn’t deny the claim. Instead, he cupped Sansa’s cheek in his hand. She did not flinch. “Do you want revenge on those who have wronged you and your family? To stand by my side as I pull the world’s strings?”

Petyr’s offer wasn’t one of security. It wasn’t safety or hope, or necessarily wisdom, but neither was it a wrong path. Sansa wanted what Petyr was offering. The only way to stop Ramsay was to remove him, she knew that now, and this wretched man was offering her everything to make that happen.  _Just like Barbrey Dustin._  Sansa lifted her shaking hand, hooking her fingers around Petyr’s wrist. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to do that.”

“Oh, you will be. We’ll spend the next month teaching you, helping you. And then we’ll try again. Given time and education and nurturing, you could out-do the three fools sitting beside you. Maybe even me.”

Sansa chuckled. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t.” Petyr stood from his chair, pressing his mouth to the crown of her head. She should have felt embarrassed for having such an intimate moment with the others present, but it didn’t bother her at all. His kiss was tender. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in Petyr’s arms again, to fall back asleep and try to recover what the nightmare took, but he pulled away before she could ask. “I haven’t slept in two days. No one disturb me or they’re getting a bullet fired at them.”

“Aye sir,” said Mayana. “What do you want us to do?”

Petyr opened Sansa’s door and looked over his shoulder. “Take care of her. We’ll come together later and make a plan.”

“Sounds good to me.” Olyvar stood from the bed and took Sansa’s breakfast tray, handing it back to her as Petyr left the room. “You should eat. I slaved over these pancakes and the ugly faces they’re making.”

Mayana patted Sansa’s thigh. “Eat and then shower, pretty girl, then we can find something to take your mind off things. We’ll be in Ros’s room when you’re ready.”

Sansa didn’t feel empty when the others left her alone again. She felt full, cherished, safe. Determined.

They all believed in her. Petyr believed in her.

There was no reason in the world why she couldn’t believe in herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do y'all know that i would lay down my life for sansa stark  
> PHEW, what a chapter. Holy cow. Such a roller coaster. I want to take a minute and talk about the dream, just in case someone reads this and gets upset. **I want every reader to be disgusted by what they read.** I want you to feel dirty, gross and uncomfortable, because to feel anything different wouldn't be accurate to the true horrors of rape. I want your hearts to ache for Sansa. I want you to root for her. And I want you to understand a small inkling of what it's really like to try to recover and fall back after working _so hard_. I'm sorry if I triggered anyone, but to be fair, I did put a warning up top! There won't be a scene about Ramsay this graphic again, though. Don't worry. This was a one-time deal. But I thought it was important to travel with Sansa to that dark place to see where she's coming from, and how far she still has to go.  
>  ANYWAY, ENOUGH ABOUT SAD SHIT. Holy crap, Barbrey!! #BaelishSquadFam!!!! World domination! There's so much to digest in this chapter. I'd apologize, but you know me. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I've added songs to the beginning of every chapter thus far, because soundtrack choices was something y'all wanted! So here you go. These were songs I think fit the chapter, and ones that I listened to while writing. Enjoy!  
> Next Saturday's update is much more light-hearted. I honestly love chapter five **SO** much, I know you guys will too. A nice break from the angst. See you then, my dears! *big smooches*


	5. Love & Antares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choice:**   
>  [[hearts a mess; gotye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yu-Tp2sxhMI)]   
> 

  
**5 NOVEMBER, 2016**

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

Petyr looked up from his phone, adjusting in the passenger seat. “Why should I? It’s not important.”

“You say that every year. ‘Don’t celebrate my birthday, spend your time doing something useful.’” Ros’s tone was mocking as she took a highway exit, turning off the M25. “She’ll want to do something nice for you. Sansa’s a sweet girl like that.”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t tell her.” He turned back to his phone and opened the app for his email. “Just another day in the year, anyway.”

“But you love being the center of attention. Almost ten years I’ve been working for you, but you never let us celebrate your birthday.”

“Nor will I.” Petyr’s reasons were his own. “Drop it and keep driving. I don’t want to be late.”

Submitting to his stubbornness, Ros did as she was told.

The radio brought the only sound between them. Petyr never cared what any of his employees listened to; Ros had her indie music, Olyvar his dance and Mayana her hip-hop, but Petyr rarely paid attention. He focused on his emails instead. A notification from Barbrey Dustin on her monetary transfer, a message from Tywin Lannister about changes to MI5, an email from Tyrion about Cersei’s spending habits — _Oh, that’s interesting._  Petyr started reading before Ros broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to be so hard on the others, you know.”

Petyr looked over at her. The stoplight was red, giving Ros enough time to stare at him from behind the wheel of his Bentley. His lip twitched. “What would you have done with them, Ros? Had things gone differently, Sansa would be back in the hands of Ramsay Bolton. Is that something you would have risked?”

“No,” said Ros, “but it didn’t go differently. Sansa was alright and Ramsay never knew she was there. We have Barbrey Dustin. Everything’s going as you planned.”

Petyr sighed, returning his gaze to the screen. “You’re starting to sound like me. Who’s going to be my conscience if you fail, Ros?”

“You’ll find your own, I’m sure.” The light turned green. Ros took a left turn, up a hill lined with shapely spruce trees losing their autumn color. “I think you overreacted. I’ve never seen Mayana so upset.”

“It reminded her of her teenage years, no doubt. I used to threaten her with death all the time.”

Ros gave him a withering stare. Petyr chose not to acknowledge his harshness and continued scrolling through Cersei’s purchases.  _Versace. Versace. Armani. Christ, woman, get a better taste._

“Anyway,” said Ros pointedly, “I know you wouldn’t actually kill them. Just be a bit less cruel, okay? We don’t want to repeat what happened in Spain.”

 _Good god._  Petyr locked his phone and turned to face his driver, his right-hand woman, the constant pain in his ass. “Is it your job to continuously annoy me? If I’m soft in punishment, all three of you would march over my corpse while it's still warm. Who runs this operation?”

Ros frowned. “Petyr, I only—”

“Who runs it? Tell me.”

She sighed, gripping the wheel tighter in her hands. “You do.”

“Good. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.” Petyr turned forward again, adjusting the seatbelt that had moved near his neck. They were silent for several minutes. Petyr watched the naked trees pass by until he spoke again. “You can’t tell me Sansa was unharmed. You said so yourself, you’ve never heard someone scream like that.”

Ros’s grip softened. “It’s true. I haven’t.”

“And that says ‘unharmed’ to you?” Petyr leaned his elbow on the sill of the window and scratched his beard, frowning. “Mayana and Olyvar were careless with her life. Her quality of life. Sansa is mine to shape and they threatened my success. Maybe my protection of her is a bit too… overzealous, but I don’t regret it, nor do I regret what I told them. I would say the same to you if you’d been as foolish as they were.” Petyr ignored the fact that it was  _his_  lack of judgment that brought Sansa to harm in the first place.  _If only I'd been more patient._

“Well. Either way, you didn’t mean it.” Ros pulled off the main road, down a concrete driveway that ran the length of a vineyard. Iron gates with golden roses marked their destination. “You care about Sansa. I knew you would, I said so when she first came to us. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” said Petyr bitterly. “But I care for her assets, Ros. Nothing else.”

“Yeah?” Ros scoffed and rolled down her window. “You’re such a bloody liar.”

The security guard at the gate came forward. He peeked inside the car, recognizing Petyr and saying something into his handheld. Wrought-iron gates opened for them. Ros pulled in to the curved driveway before the old Chevening House, historical and outstanding, a last whimsical breath of the English Renaissance. “Admit it,” said Ros after she parked. “You care about Sansa. She cares about you, at least. We all do.”

Petyr’s chest felt the smallest trickle of warmth, an uncomfortable feeling that dissipated as soon as it came. “If you truly care for me, you’re all fools who’ve learned nothing.”

“Or we’re geniuses who’ve learned too much.”

He glared at her. Ros gave him a cheeky beam, stepping out of the car just before he did. Petyr straightened his suit jacket and the green scarf around his neck, embroidered with a mockingbird at the end, and offered his arm to the frustrating beauty at his side. “You’ll learn, Ros,” he told her. “One of these days, you’ll learn not to trust me.”

A pair of butlers opened the front double-doors. Petyr had been to the Chevening House so many times that it was like a second home to him. Had he the temperament to run for office, he would live in a mansion like this one, powerful and established with a long line of history. But as he watched Foreign Secretary Tyrell squabble with a bald man over tea in the garden, Petyr knew his talents were better suited to the shadows. Darkness was a far better breeding ground for his games.

“Madame secretary,” said Littlefinger with a bow.

Olenna Tyrell looked at him with eyes full of wisdom, judging him as she always did. Eventually her frown lit up into a hearty laugh. “Good heavens, Littlefinger, don’t call me that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Dramatic. Here, have a seat. Tea’s just cooling off.”

“And how could you forget me, old friend?” said the man across the table. Littlefinger turned to him with indifference. “Am I hard on the eyes?”

“Unbearable, really.” Littlefinger extended his hand. Varys shook it with a politely soft grip as if they were just being introduced, but no one knew Varys better than Littlefinger. “You should grow out your hair," he jested. "Winter is coming.”

“You sound like Lord Stark. But I’ll admit, I do feel a chill now and again.” Varys shuddered. “Perhaps I’ll buy a pair of fuzzy earmuffs.” When he saw Ros, however, dressed in her flowing red gown and braided hair, Varys smiled as though she was warmth personified. “Or perhaps I should find young beauties to live with as you have. Littlefinger, how do you ever manage to leave your home?” Varys greeted Ros with a kiss on the cheek, a gesture she amiably returned.

“There is always temptation,” said Littlefinger. “Only difference is, I have a cock to enjoy when I feel the need. I often wonder if that makes you jealous.”

“Oh, come now. Both of you.” Olenna snapped her fingers like she was scolding her children. “Sit down and act like men.” Her tone was not patronizing; there was a spark of amusement in her eyes when Littlefinger removed his coat and took a seat, and he was glad to see it there. Ros sat beside him. A fresh pot of tea was served, along with a mix of vegetables and dips, but Littlefinger did not eat. He took scotch instead and lit a mint-flavored cigarette, crossing one leg over the other to prepare for discussion.

The group of schemers took several minutes catching up on affairs of state. Littlefinger never divulged information about his personal life, having learned how to dodge those questions long ago, but he was interested in stories about other cabinet members and Varys’s associates. Prince Stannis was rumored to be in the midst of an affair with a Dutch nun. Prince Renly had openly begun a relationship with Loras Tyrell, and the Physician to the Queen, Dr. Pycelle, was still on trial for soliciting minors. Littlefinger stored away bits of relevant information and took a drag of tobacco when the Foreign Secretary addressed him.

“So,” said Olenna. “To what do I owe the honor of your mysterious visit? Surely you didn’t come all this way for a bit of gossip.”

Littlefinger smirked, a devious trademark he was known for. “The Stark family was murdered.”

“Yes,” she said sorrowfully. “I know.”

“But you don’t know who’s responsible.”

“Do you?”

Littlefinger chuckled. “You should know by now not to question me.” Ros handed him his briefcase. He opened it with two clicks and retrieved the needed files, offering them to Olenna and Varys respectively. “Lannister, Bolton, and Frey.”

The two curious dignitaries skimmed through the paperwork. Littlefinger leaned back in his seat and blew cigarette smoke into the breeze, letting them read in silence before he spoke. “All the evidence of Ned Stark’s supposed accident and the fire that burned his wife and children are sealed away at MI5. There were never official investigations into either incident. My mother used to say, ‘you have nothing to hide if what you’ve already hidden stays buried.’”

“You had a mother?” quipped Varys. He licked his fingers before turning a page. “I thought you sprung out of the ground like a goblin.”

“Goblins are clever creatures, my friend. Not so terrible a thing to be compared to.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve been called worse.” Varys looked up from his reading with a look of disappointment. “This is all very troubling to hear. Not unexpected, I’m afraid. My little birds told me that Frey and Bolton had been doing dark dealings, but never that the Lannisters pulled the strings.”

“Everyone knows the Lannisters pull the strings.” Olenna sipped her tea with a bitter shake of her head. “Even the Prime Minister knows. Poor thing. I warned her not to run for office, but I suppose it’s better to have Daenerys Targaryen than Tywin Lannister.”

“That still doesn’t change the facts.” Varys folded his hands in his lap. “Daenerys is fighting Tywin behind closed doors, but Ned Stark only wanted peace. He was no man’s enemy. Why kill him?”

“There are many who never liked the idea of a Jew so deep in Parliament,” said Littlefinger, “much less at King Joffrey’s side. But I’m afraid that’s just the beginning. Cersei has hated the Starks ever since Joffrey was poisoned. She openly blamed Sansa Stark at the time.”

“Ridiculous,” Olenna spat, sharing a glance with Littlefinger before redirecting. “Sansa was, what, thirteen when the king died? Could a thirteen-year-old girl sweeter than honey commit murder? She was supposed to be his wife. Cersei is a lunatic.”

“A smart lunatic, unfortunately. One with ties to the most vengeful man in Europe.” Varys closed the file and handed it back to Ros, who placed it in the suitcase where it belonged. “Walder Frey and Roose Bolton burned the Stark family alive. But how does this gain them Lord Stark’s fortune, if that was truly their motive? Sansa Stark has been missing for weeks and neither Jon nor Arya Stark have been seen since Ned's death. With no next-of-kin, the money goes to charity.”

“Unless Sansa marries.” Petyr worked his jaw; the idea of Sansa being wed to Ramsay made his skin crawl, but he let the feeling hide beneath his mask. “I believe Roose Bolton tricked Lord Stark into signing Sansa over to him before his death. Roose is her legal guardian. If she marries his son, he inherits the fortune with her.”

“And Roose can split the money with Walder Frey and Tywin.”

Littlefinger spread his hands. “Everybody wins.”

“How do you know all this?” Olenna narrowed her eyes at him. “Roose Bolton forcing marriage seems rather unusual, wouldn’t you say? The girl’s not even legal yet.”

“Maybe you should ask her.” Littlefinger’s expression was mischievous, his brow quirked. “I won’t let you see her until she’s ready, though. No sense in bringing her so much stress so soon.”

Varys shifted in Littlefinger’s peripheral. “You have her?” asked Olenna, astonished. “Sansa Stark?”

“I have for several weeks.” Littlefinger could barely contain his elation at their shock, but Petyr didn’t stay smiling for long. “She is safe under my care. But she wasn’t under Roose Bolton’s. His son, Ramsay, kept her imprisoned. I had a medical professional in my network examine Sansa the day after she came to us. She confided in me that she was physically and sexually abused, and all tests confirmed her claims.”

“DNA?” asked Varys. “Was there anything that can link Ramsay Bolton directly as the identity of her attacker?”

“Unfortunately not,” Petyr replied. “She told us that she always cleaned herself after his attacks.”

Olenna looked ill. She kept her hand over her mouth for a long time, eyes dark with righteous anger. “That is truly vile.”

“And here I thought Littlefinger was the only monster I knew.” Varys frowned. “I hope you’re being gentle with her. Your history with young women is… questionable.”

Littlefinger couldn’t help but grin. “The women who work for me at The Mockingbird are all willing participants, Varys. I’d tell you to see for yourself, but you lack the parts required to make the most of it.”

“Believe me, I’m brought to tears at the thought of what I’m missing.”

“Oh, enough!” Olenna snapped. “Christ in heaven, it’s a miracle either of you manage to get anything done.” She turned to Littlefinger, full of fire. “I want to know why you’re telling us this. If you don’t have enough evidence to go forward, why are you bringing it to us at all?”

“Because you’re going to help me put a stop to it.” Littlefinger dropped his finished cigarette in Ros's cup of water. “I have an insider working on Roose Bolton’s financial downfall, but money isn’t everything.   
I need a leash and collar for a rabid dog.”

“Blackmail,” Varys clarified. “If you give me what I need, Littlefinger, I would gladly be the prosecutor in a case against him.”

“I don’t want a court case. Even without money, he has Tywin’s backing and Kevan Lannister is the new Chief Justice. Court would be a disaster.” Littlefinger looked over to Ros, who procured two contracts from the briefcase to hand to Varys and Olenna. “You know how this goes. Work for me and you’ll be rewarded.”

Olenna eyed him warily. “Another one of your plots, then?”

Littlefinger shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“What exactly would we be doing for you?” asked Varys, scanning the contract in hesitation. “I am a lawyer with my own firm. I can’t exactly be caught up in plotting murder.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” Littlefinger sipped from his scotch, grinning. “No, you’re terrible at it anyway. I want your little birds to bring one of Roose’s little birds to me. Olenna will focus on the Lannisters.”

“Oh, will I?” Her tone was spiteful. “And why is that? Why should the Foreign Secretary get involved in all this?”

Littlefinger stood from his chair. Ros set the suitcase aside to help him back into his coat. “You were friends with Lord Stark,” he said. “Both of you were, yet neither of you helped him in his time of need. You can help his daughter now.”

Olenna studied him behind inquisitive eyes, knowing he had darker, unstated intentions. Littlefinger met her stare with one of equal persistence until she gave in. “For Ned, then. God knows he was the only good one among us.”

Olenna signed the contract, as did Varys, and Littlefinger took them eagerly. “You’ll hear from me before the week is out.”

Unceremoniously, Littlefinger left them to their tea.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

The sun had fully set by the time Petyr returned to his manor on the eastern edge of London. He unhooked his seatbelt when Ros pulled up to the entrance. She kept her foot on the brake, eyeing Petyr expectantly as if waiting for him to leave. He caught the hint.

“I wasn’t aware you had other plans,” said Petyr.

“Do I have to run everything by you? You’re not my mother.”

“This is  _my_  car.”

“And it’s _your_  birthday.” Ros turned up the music on her radio and winked. “Get out, old man. You’ll thank me later.”

 _She’s up to something._  But after a long drive and days of little to no rest, he wasn’t in the mood for an argument. Petyr stepped out of his car, trusting Ros knew the punishment if anything happened to it, and closed the door behind him. Ros stepped on the gas and pulled off down the driveway toward the connecting street. He watched the taillights of his Bentley fade. _What is she doing?_

His phone vibrated. Petyr retrieved it from his pocket to read the texts in their group conversation.

_You better forgive us after this, Pete. – M_

_We are the best evil henchmen you’re going to find. - O_

_Honestly. Love us. Just be nice to her. Use a condom. - M_  
_I can’t believe we’re drinking and texting in the same chat while sitting right next to each other. We’re the best. - O_

“For fuck’s sake,” Petyr muttered. He locked his phone and walked into the manor, shrugging off his peacoat to hang it up in the closet. He opened his mouth to call for the others and scold them for drinking on the job, near to firing them completely for their lack of forward thinking.

His call was cut short. Petyr heard a voice, feminine and melodic, coming from the dining room.  _Sansa._  She was singing along to a song that played regularly on the radio. The smell of cooking meat and seasoning was strong in the air as he walked down the hall. Petyr stayed silent, pressing his hand against the door and leaning in to hear her better.

Sansa was belting out the lyrics to the song as though she’d written it herself. Her voice held the perfect vibrato, exquisite pitch and tone. Not for the first time, she left Petyr entranced. It would be well within reason to ask her to sing for him, but he stood frozen instead, waiting.

Sansa remained unaware of her audience. “ _I’m not gonna write you a love song, ‘cuz you_ —ouch!” She hissed and jumped, having injured herself on something in the room. Petyr grinned. “Dang it dang it dang it.” He heard her step around the table and exit toward the kitchen, muttering something about stupid chairs. His curiosity got the better of him. When Petyr was certain she was no longer in the room, he pushed open the door to see what she’d been doing.

He was left speechless.

The long dining table was half-covered in homemade food. Cooked vegetables marinated with spice, potatoes and mushrooms and onions and zucchini. A bowl of scones and a loaf of braided bread. Pomegranate wine. Red velvet cake wrapped in cream cheese frosting and covered in chocolate shavings and strawberries.

All of his favorite foods, minus the main course.

All for him.

Sansa had started singing again when she entered the dining room. In her hands was a platter of crusted lamb with a black currant gastrique, lined with polenta and heirloom carrots with a spiced yogurt side. Just the way he liked it. She gasped when she noticed Petyr standing in the doorway and nearly lost her grip on the meal she’d worked for. The two of them stood in mutual shock, neither one sure what to say until Sansa gave him a sheepish grin. “Happy birthday.”

Petyr stayed still. He watched Sansa, her honest smile and sky-colored eyes that had haunted him for weeks. He turned to the Bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room where her new phone was placed. Petyr walked over and unplugged them both. The song she’d been singing was abruptly cut off, leaving nothing but silence.

Her smile fell. She shifted nervously, setting down the platter of lamb on the table and stepping away. She was wearing a red apron covered in flour handprints and smudges of seasoning, and she looked winded, her hair up in a bun despite the flyaway that fell in her face. She was beautiful. He was a damned fool to think any outcome other than this could have befallen him.

Sansa could not stop her kindness no matter her circumstances, and that was what made her so impossible.

“Happy birthday?” Petyr asked. He crossed the room to her, shaking his head when she took a step back. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not angry.”

Sansa fumbled with her fingers and curled loose strands of hair behind her ear. “I know you don’t like to celebrate your birthday,” she said. “They all told me not to, but you’ve done so much for me. I thought the least I could do was make you dinner.”

Petyr looked to the table again. His tongue passed over his teeth in thought. He'd admittedly had other, darker things in mind for her repayment when the time came, but Sansa had left him surprised with something kinder. Purer.

“You’re not upset, are you?” she asked quietly. “I thought you’d like it. It’s all your favorite foods. Lamb, red velvet cake, pomegranate wine, there’s even chocolate mint ice cream in the freezer for later. I asked the others what you liked…” Sansa trailed off, seemingly embarrassed, and cast her eyes to the floor.

“You made all this?” Petyr gestured to the table. “Everything?”

“Mhm.” Blue eyes flickered up to his. “I’ve been working since three, I think. But that doesn’t matter. Everyone deserves a nice dinner on their birthday.”

“So they do.” Petyr felt a smile take him. He tried to mask it by rubbing his chin, feeling like an idiot for how pleased he was. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday in nearly thirty years,” he confessed, “but it would be rude to walk away from your efforts. And you’ve baited me with my favorite things. Clever girl.” He chuckled under his breath. “Just don’t sing Happy Birthday. You’ve a lovely voice, my dear, but it might be awkward when it’s just the two of us.”

Sansa beamed then, a smile so great it almost pained him to look at. “That sounds like a fair trade to me.”

As always, Sansa was wonderful company. The two unlikely friends were deep in conversation before either of them had taken a bite from their plates. She raved about the upcoming American election, a topic he’d gladly dragged her into, and offered her opinion on who should win. They talked about her studies in philosophy after the completion of  _Utopia_ , breached the topic of her mental care under Ros and Olyvar, and even discussed growing up in the Stark household, a subject Petyr had always been curious about. He was captivated by Sansa's glow when she spoke of family. He listened to her go on about Purim and Rosh Hashanah and other Jewish holidays, but his focus stayed fixed on watching her giggle at her favorite memories.

He wondered how it felt; being comfortable in one’s past.

“Petyr?”

“Mm?” He raised his brow, sipping at the wine he’d been drinking too much of. His chest felt warm, light like air, but when he glanced to the bottle it was only half-empty.

“I asked if you remember anything about your family.”

“Of course. Apologies, Sansa, it’s been a long day.”

“I understand.” She smiled and leaned back in her chair, a glass of water in her hands. She’d opted out of wine due to her new anti-anxiety medication. Their meals finished, Petyr studied her with a desire he couldn’t contain, eyes lingering at the slope of her neck.  _What to tell._

“I don’t remember my parents much,” said Petyr. “They died when I was eight. My father was from Chicago, a soldier during World War II, and my mother was the daughter of a sheep farmer on the Fingers.”

“Your father must have been brave,” said Sansa. She leaned closer, somehow interested in the topic of his family. “Where are the Fingers?”

“It’s not an official map-marked location, but there’s a stretch off the Swiss Alps that looks like fingers reaching toward Lake Lucerne. Locals call them The Fingers. I was born there, in Switzerland.”

“The Fingers,” Sansa repeated. Her back went straight, eyes bright with the lightbulb that went off in her head. “Is that why they call you Littlefinger?”

“That’s where it came from, yes." Petyr rubbed his chin. It was strange to think back on those memories, now. "Your uncle Edmure gave me that nickname. I hated it, but it stuck, and it’s not entirely inaccurate. I was a small boy. I’m still not the tallest of men.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Though I suppose _Kleinerfinger_  would be more appropriate, given my origins.”

“Is that German?”

He nodded. “Swiss German. My mother tongue. I learned English too, and some Gaelic when I was in Ireland. But German was the first.”

“Oh. Strange, all I hear is a British accent when you talk. And a bit of Irish, too. It comes out sometimes.” Sansa scooted her chair closer in excitement, and Petyr watched her, amused. “You should say something in German. Mum taught us some Gaelic, but I’ve never heard German before. Not polite German, anyway.” She toyed with the Star around her neck. Petyr could guess what she was referring to.

“You want to hear Swiss German?” Petyr asked, mouth quirking devilishly. He thought of the lewd things he could say, all the filth he could tell her that he couldn’t yet in English. But there was only one thing that consistently came to mind. He held her gaze in earnest.  _“Ich bin froh, das du mich aglüte hesch.”_

_I’m glad you called me._

Sansa smiled as though she understood. “What does that mean?”

Petyr chose not to reply. Leaving Sansa to her curiosity, he stood from his seat to collect the dishes and stack them on top of each other. Sansa reached to help. Petyr stopped her by taking gentle hold of her wrist, and she froze. “Let me. You’ve done too much today as it is, and your hands are still healing.”

“You?” Sansa teased. “Doing dishes?”

“You think I worked my way to a position of power not knowing how to clean?” He shook his head at her and grinned. “Go start a fire in the hearth. I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Sansa smiled to show her gratitude. She tried to pull back her hand, but he squeezed it tightly.

“On one condition,” said Petyr, looking into her eyes. “You have to share that ice cream with me. Mayana will steal it if she finds out it’s here.”

Sansa giggled. Petyr watched anxiety slip through the cracks in her pretty face, leaving nothing but gentle ease. “I can’t turn down ice cream.”

“I didn’t think so.” He let go of her arm and watched her leave, staring at where she’d been.

Cleaning dishes was an easy task. Sansa had gone to the living room, leaving Petyr to his job with soapy hands and rolled-up sleeves. It didn’t take long. When determined, Petyr was quite the diligent cleaner. He dried his hands after the work was done and served two bowls of chocolate mint ice cream, taking both in-hand before entering the living room. Sansa was sitting upright on the brown leather couch. He could see her dress now that the apron was gone. A button-down navy thing, thin in fabric and modest in style. The fire in the hearth danced off Sansa’s Irish hair, making her glow like a flame all her own. Her beauty was frustrating in the way it made him stop and stare.

Sansa smiled up at Petyr when he came to her. She took her offered dessert and rested back against the arm of the couch, ankles crossed atop the cushions. Petyr sat beside her feet and propped his own on the edge of the coffee table, legs outstretched, and pushed out a long sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. He closed his eyes and rested his head back. It felt good to unwind. _Maybe I should forgive those two after all._

“Are you already tired?” asked Sansa. “It’s only ten.”

“Mm. Yeah. All that wonderful food, plus the car ride and dealing with unexciting politics. Other people’s bullshit.” Petyr winced, stretching his back before coming to rest again. “It occasionally drains me.”

Sansa wiggled her toes and took a bite of ice cream, seemingly quite happy. “I could give you a shoulder massage sometime, if your back bothers you. I used to give them to Father and Robb. Even Jon, when he was home.”

 _There’s an idea._  Petyr smirked, trying to keep his sexual thoughts out of a conversation they didn’t yet belong in. “A back massage?” He raised his head from the sofa. “You would do that?”

“Why not? I’ve given Olyvar one already. Ros too. You’ll have to wait until my hands heal, but I’d be happy to lend some help.” Sansa smiled, pure and sweet without any inclination to his perverted ideas. “Especially for an older gentleman.”

 _“Older gentleman?”_  Petyr’s laughed and sucked the ice cream from his spoon, feeling half his age. “I turned forty-three today, Sansa. I don’t think I’m at that point yet.”

“If you say so,” she giggled in reply.

“You should be nicer, young lady.” Petyr placed his bowl of ice cream on the table. He turned to face Sansa, propping his legs up on the couch to rest side-by-side with hers. His tone was playful to ensure she knew he was joking. “I saved you from the streets of London. It would be a shame if you found your way back there.”

“Psh. I can handle London. It’s filled with tossers anyway.” Sansa waved her hand. “And for the record,  _Mr. Baelish_ , you didn’t save me at all. I saved myself.”

Petyr frowned. Sansa  _had_  saved herself, facing terrible consequence for the sake of her own survival. Were they so different, him and her? Sansa had chosen to live, to be something greater than the horror that held her, and while it had taken Petyr much longer to discover his worth, he’d done so too. Petyr turned to the crackling fire, mind lingering on the things he’d done to endure. Her leg brushed his. By the look on her face, he could tell she’d been thinking similarly.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” said Petyr. His voice was raw. “Anything.”

Sansa leaned over and placed her bowl on the table. Her movements were cautious. She fumbled with her hands, fighting for words to say until she stood and began to pace the room. He watched her closely. “You held me,” Sansa muttered. Her eyes were soft; he could see her open heart through them. “When I had that nightmare, you held me and you didn’t leave for hours.”

The memory wasn’t one he liked to recall. Holding Sansa was one thing, but pulling her from the edge of insanity was another. “I did.”

“People say that you’re despicable. Barbrey Dustin, she said you were a monster.” Sansa looked to the floor, then up at him. “You don’t agree with them, do you?”

Petyr was taken off-guard. He felt Sansa there, at the base of the walls he’d spent decades building, scratching at the stone with pick and chisel. She made him squirm. Uncomfortable with her position over him, Petyr stood from the couch and came to her. He matched the backwards steps she took in retreat. “I  _am_  despicable, Sansa. You think taking the Boltons and Lannisters from power is going to leave my hands clean? Do you think they’re not bloodstained already?”

She didn’t respond. He continued, moving closer.

“You’re a smart girl. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m an innocent man.”

Her hand reached out to stop him, pressing against his chest. Sansa’s back met the wall and their bodies were inches apart. He felt the heat in his veins again, strange and familiar, but he shoved it away in favor of a tangible darkness. He placed a hand against the wall beside her head and kept grey-green eyes locked with hers.

“You’re not despicable,” she whispered.

Petyr’s free hand cupped her chin. “And what makes you say that?”

“Because you held me. You held me and you didn’t let go.”

There it was. The truth. Petyr released his tension in a sigh, shoulders lowering in defeat. Her hand stayed on his chest. He could feel her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, over the buttons and seams down the center. He wondered what she was clinging to. Petyr removed his hand from her face to take her injured palm in his, planting a soft kiss to her broken skin. Sansa’s eyes truly opened. No longer was she anxious to be close, and for a moment he dared to breach the waters of her trust. She would forgive him for overstepping, wouldn’t she? She could forgive a small mistake. But the memory of Sansa's screams, the look in her eyes when she’d wielded the knife… Petyr never wanted to see it again. If pursuing her was what he really wanted, patience was the only way.

“Have you had any nightmares since then?” Petyr kept hold of her hand. “Be honest.”

Sansa didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Instead of taking advantage of an opportunity, Petyr opted for the path of chivalry, defending it with the lie that it was all for selfish gain. “Maybe I can allay your fears for one night.”

He squeezed her hand. Sansa followed where he led. Petyr walked with her up the stairs and to her room, closing the door after her. She let go of his hand and walked halfway to the bed before stopping. Petyr saw the fear in her eyes. “I won’t touch you,” he promised. “Only enough to help you sleep.”

Sansa wrung her hands. “You just said you were despicable,” she reminded him.

Petyr chuckled. He took her hand again and led her to the mattress’s edge. “I am,” he agreed. “But not to you.”

Sansa offered a broken smile that he saw in the moonlight. Petyr let go of her to climb on her canopy bed, settling in the center until he was comfortable. He patted his chest twice in summons. Sansa curled up at his side, her head resting on the spot he’d called her to. Petyr felt her sigh as he rubbed her back. Sansa was such an affectionate girl, so physical and weak to the touch, and so was he. Already they complimented each other. In company, intellect, passion and interests.

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” she whispered.

“You know how it is when we strain ourselves,” he replied. “Us  _older gentlemen._ ”

Sansa smiled. Petyr smiled, too. The wine could not be blamed.

She fell quiet after a time, her sighs fading to soft breaths and loose arms around him. It didn’t take her long to drift to sleep. Petyr pulled his phone from his pocket, certain the three idiots who worked for him would want an update on his night. He wasn’t wrong. Petyr unlocked his phone to 207 unread text messages in the group conversation. “Jesus,” he muttered in disbelief, opening them and skimming through what he could.

_I hope they’re not having sex. He’s a freak. - R_

_It’s her choice if they are. She’s not made of glass, she’s the stuff of steel. - M_

_Poetic! Tattoo that on my forehead after I’m done with this bloke in the gray hat. - O_

_Were they texting each other in the same bar?_  Petyr thought with a shake of his head. Mayana’s texts had gone completely incoherent and Olyvar had stopped responding altogether, but at the end of the thread was a message from Ros received about an hour ago.

_How’s it going? - R_

Petyr thought of a response, his hand moving from Sansa’s waist to the back of her head. Touching her felt like freedom. He placed a kiss to her crown as if it was all he was meant to do, unable to resist, and took a deep inhale of her sweet-smelling hair.

He knew how to respond. Petyr started typing.

_It was nice. You’re all fired._

Petyr sent his message and turned off the screen, placing it beside him in favor of Sansa’s arm. His fingertips lazily grazed her skin. He ached to roll her over and plant kiss after kiss on every inch of her, to taste her, to be as lecherous as he yearned to be. But there was something indescribably pure just in holding her that made sex seem almost unattractive. Almost.

“I’m glad,” muttered Sansa.

“Mm?”

“I’m glad it was nice for you.”

Petyr didn’t respond as Sansa nestled deeper into his arms. His instinct was to pull her closer, pressing another kiss to her head. He didn’t know where the line of their relationship had been crossed, but it had been. She’d cracked open his rib cage and settled in where no one else belonged. And worst of all, she was comfortable there.

Petyr sighed into her hair and resigned to surrender for the night. He closed his eyes and kept her tight against him, reconsidering his intentions all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally saved this in my documents as BARF.docx  
> Okay. You got two chapters this week, children, because your sin mother is generous. But I hope you guys don't expect this on the regular; I've got a schedule to keep between medical issues and full-time college, so please be patient with the week-by-week updates! I promise this story is worth the wait! :') I'd update faster if I had the time.  
>  **Rad Trivia:** This chapter name was supposed to be just "Antares", named after the brightest star in the Scorpius constellation (the star is also called "Scorpio's Heart" or "Heart of the Scorpion" ognaoigjewoiagr) but a friend told me that there's an artist--named Joe Webb--who has a series called [Love & Antares](https://www.google.com/search?q=LOVE+%26+ANTARES&espv=2&biw=1440&bih=679&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjKqcbYwfHOAhVL_mMKHZgnCNoQ_AUICCgB). LOOK AT IT. IT'S BEAUTIFUL. Thus, this chapter's title and image were born. And I screamed for forty years.  
>  We also get a little dabble of Petyr's backstory here! It goes father than just this, but he's not about to open up all the way yet. Patience, my lovelies. He's a guarded dude.  
> BUT ALSO OLENNA AND VARYS??? GOD. I just love the politics of this story, I worked so hard to make it right, lol. I hope it all pays off in the end.  
> See you next Saturday! (For real this time.)


	6. Phantoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * I racebended a group of characters for the purpose of realism. It just doesn't make sense for the Wildlings to be a bunch of white people when the Wall is a military base in Afghanistan, does it? I'll explain further in the endnotes.
> 
> **soundtrack choice:**   
>  [[organs; of monsters and men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJZDHW6txk4)]   
> 

  
**17 NOVEMBER, 2016**

Food ran out twice as fast with two mouths to feed. Arya had survived hunger before, able to balance her meals to keep just off the edge of starvation, but staying stocked was one of Jon’s constant worries. They couldn’t go hungry with goals to accomplish. Arya knew how to use her own reserves, but Jon was healing, and he needed all the nourishment he could get.

Another trip to the store. It felt like all she did these days was shop.

Arya pushed her trolley down each grocery aisle. It felt good to wear new clothes again, fresh jeans and a winter jacket purchased with her cage winnings. Fake glasses and a fake name concealed her identity. The police had stopped looking for her long ago, so it was relatively safe to walk around in less populated areas. Less risk. Arya glanced to the list Jon had given her, wanting to get back to him as soon as possible.

 _Why would anyone put meat in a can?_  Arya wondered, scowling at Spam on the nearest shelf. The idea of it repulsed her. She picked up a can, turning it over to read the ingredients.  _Pork shoulder? Since when does Jon eat pork?_  Arya groaned in disgust and tossed a few cans into the cart. Apparently Spam was a delicacy among soldiers. They’d found multiple uses for it in Afghanistan; mix it with eggs, stir it in vegetable soup, stuff it in sandwiches or between crackers, and so on. Arya had gagged when Jon salivated at the memories.  _You’d think they could feed soldiers better, with all that they do._

Arya trudged on through the store. She picked up a few of the necessities; dog food for Ghost, orange juice, a huge jar of Nutella, bread and milk and butter, noodles and sauce, peanut butter and jelly, a few boxes of mac n’ cheese and several cans of Progresso. All on sale. Arya was an excellent shopper. Her mum had always taken her out for groceries when she’d fight with Sansa, just to get out of the house for a while.  _But Mum had coupons. I bet she could get all this for half of what I’ll pay._  Arya didn’t want to think of her mother for long, though, and distracted herself by picking up a bag of Sour Patch Kids.  _Yeah. I can treat myself._

When she was done checking the items off her list, Arya lined up her cart beside the self-checkout machine. No way would she face a cashier that could recognize her. Arya took each item and scanned it, trying to zone out as she continued with her dull routine.

She heard a voice. _His_ voice.

“No, Mum. Let me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gendry. That’s far too heavy for you.”

Arya froze.

“It’s just a bag of cat food. Not even as heavy as Weasel. That cat’s always eating something.”

Arya wanted to scream. Scream and flee and cry and hurt. Gendry Waters, her best friend, the one person she’d loved who hadn’t been killed or tortured, stood behind her at the opposite checkout, buying food for that stupid fat feline she’d mistaken for a weasel when it was a kitten. It was just her luck, that the friend who'd moved from London to avoid the Lannisters would run into her here, now.  _He can’t see me,_  she panicked. _It’ll just put him in danger._

“If you insist on carryin’ all that, you can,” said Gendry’s mother. “Just be careful not to drop it like last time.” Arya remembered Ms. Waters’ blonde hair, how she always smiled and asked Arya how her family was doing whenever she came over. Arya wondered if his mum's spaghetti was still the best thing on earth.

Unable to resist, Arya spared Gendry a glance. He heaved the sack of cat food over his shoulder.  _He’s gotten stronger,_  she thought,  _he was always so strong._ Realizing she’d stopped scanning her items, Arya quickly continued and ignored the shadow of her past lurking close by.

After a time, Arya heard them leave. Gendry looked good, at least. He was growing a beard. _I wish I could have seen him more._ But she couldn’t afford to be weak, not in public. Arya scanned her items much faster. She shoved a fifty-pound note into the machine and took her change, filling her empty backpack with food, not bothering to put the trolley away.

Someone grabbed her arm. She knew it was him. She wasn’t angry when he turned her around.

“Arya,” panted Gendry, the boy from better times. Joy spread over his face. He must have dashed back into the store after helping his mother, his chest rising and falling with rushed breath. “It’s you, yeah? I’m not just seein’ things?”

Arya's arm fell limp in his hold. _It’s not safe. The Lannisters know about him, I shouldn’t…_  But his eyes were so blue, so earnest and honest. How could she deny him? Arya took a deep breath and snatched his wrist. “Shut up.”

“What’re you—”

 _“Shut up.”_  Arya clutched him tight and walked out of the store, not causing a scene or giving anyone reason to look twice. She stepped outside and around the perimeter of the building with Gendry in tow, saying nothing until she reached the back where no one would see them.

He didn’t hesitate with his questions. “What’s goin’ on? It’s been months, where have you been? I’ve—” Gendry paused. “Mum n’ I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“You should still be worried. You can’t know I was here.” Arya hated saying the words, telling him that they couldn’t meet like this again, maybe not ever. But it had to be done. She didn’t want his blood on her hands. “You should turn around and go home and forget all about me.”

Gendry shook his head. “No way in hell am I gonna do that.”

Tears stung her eyes. Arya wanted so badly to let them fall, to finally collapse and weep for all that she’d lost and left behind. It would be so easy to break for him. But there was still work to do, still a sister to save, and no best friend in the entire world could stop her from rescuing Sansa, wherever she was. “Gendry, you have to. There are people looking for me. Bad people. They’ll find you if they see us, they’ll hurt you.”

“So? I can take a bit a’hurt.”

“No! No.” She clenched her fists at her side. “You can’t help me this time, I don’t want you to get killed. I lost everyone but you.” Her voice was shaking, throat burning with how strongly she held back her sorrow. “You need to get out of here.”

Gendry’s eyes searched hers. Maybe he could see what she’d done to stay alive, the months of stealing and fighting and losing herself, how tired it made her. But if he saw, he didn’t say a word about it. Gendry took her face in his hands. Arya almost whimpered. “You stay safe then, yeah? And you come back when it’s all over.”

“You’d better get good marks or I won’t come back at all.”

Gendry chuckled, a hesitant sound reserved for goodbyes. He removed his hands from her face and dug into his pockets, pulling out a few wrinkled pounds and loose change. “Here. Take this. I don’t need it.”

“Gendry—”

“Just take it, would you?” He shoved the money in her hand and curled her fingers around it. “I wish I could give you more.”

“Thanks.” Arya’s smile was weak. She knew that if Gendry embraced her she wouldn’t let go, so Arya took a few backward steps, increasing the distance between them. “Tell Weasel I said hi.”

“She’s a cat, Arya, not a person.”

“I still miss her. And you.” Arya stashed Gendry’s money in her pocket, keeping her pace until she was so far away that she had to shout for him to hear her. Gendry was still standing there, waiting. “I’ll come back, Gendry! I promise!”

She watched him wave from across the lot. “You better!”

Arya was laughing, then. He was too far to see, and she was grateful for that. She wiped her cheeks with the sleeves of her coat and turned away, walking as fast as she could down the sidewalk on a frigid autumn night with Sour Patch Kids as her comfort.

The past several weeks left her jaded. Jon and Arya had found a few abandoned homes to stay in at first, a bridge for shelter or a car to sleep in, but the risk of discovery became too great. Men of the Night’s Watch were around every corner. Arya had seen them showing pictures of Jon's face to people on the streetside. Deciding it better to leave London entirely, the siblings had hitchhiked across England to Manchester. Jon had a friend there who could help, he said. Jeyne Heddle. A girl he’d met in Israel during his bar mitzvah years ago. Jeyne was an innkeeper who ran a junky old motel she’d inherited from her grandmother, and she was more than happy to give Jon a room for a lower rate, as well as protection should any unwanted visitors come knocking. Arya didn’t mind going on supply runs if it meant keeping her brother safe. He needed a place to heal, and for now, a shoddy motel was the best they could hope for while they came up with a plan.

Arya fumbled with the key in her pocket. She unlocked the door to their room, swinging it open and closed, and locked it again in every possible way. Ghost perked his ears when she entered. She heard the dull sounds of the evening news and Jon loudly eating chips on his bed. He was surrounded by the canned food they’d had left, with a notepad in his lap and one arm in a sling.

Jon looked up at her, instantly concerned. “What happened?”

Arya hated that he could read her so well. She put her backpack on the table and unloaded her purchases, bringing some items to the mini-fridge and others to the cupboards. “Nothing happened. It went fine.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

A sigh. Jon knew how to push her: by being as gentle and understanding as he could. “I saw Gendry.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Did you talk to him?”

“A bit.” Arya stacked boxes of noodles behind the peanut butter, trying not to think of Gendry’s eyes. “I told him we couldn’t see each other anymore. Not until we’re all safe again.”

“I’m sorry you had to do that.” Jon’s tone was filled with sorrow, and Arya could feel his sympathy from across the room. “It’s never easy sayin’ goodbye to those you love.”

“It wasn’t goodbye. Well, it was, but just a temporary one. I’ll see him again.” Arya closed the cabinet and tossed her empty backpack to the corner of the room. “When we’re finally in Scotland with Sansa, I can convince him to move with us. I’m sure it’d be safer there anyway. For a king’s son. That’s why he moved to Manchester in the first place.”

“Yeah.” Jon smiled, but his eyes did not. He turned back to the journal in his lap, glancing at the food around him and jotting notes. Arya didn’t say anything more on the subject. When she was done putting away the groceries, she came to Jon curiously.

“What are you doing?” Arya hopped on the bed, knocking over a small stack of canned beans. “Oops.”

“S’alright,” said Jon. “I was done with those if you want to put ‘em back.” Arya didn’t want to, so she stayed put. “I’m writing down how much we have of everythin’. Stays better organized.”

“Is that something they do in the Night’s Watch?”

“Yeah. Just when we’re out in the field.” Jon closed the notebook and tossed it on the nightstand between the two beds. His mattress creaked when he moved. “Keeping track of everything meant we knew what we had and what we didn’t, or when someone stole somethin’ for a late snack. Commander Mormont hated that.” Jon chuckled under his breath. “Poor Sam. It was always Sam.”

Arya knew who Sam was. Jon’s best friend, an archiver for the Watch. She knew about Sam and Grenn and Pyp and Edd, Commander Mormont and Lieutenant Colonel Thorne and all the others.

The only one Jon never talked about was Val.

Arya picked up a can and read the label. “How are we doing on canned peaches?” she asked playfully.

“Got three a’those. Should last us a while.”

“And beans?”

“Uhh. Four.”

“Ew.”

Jon grinned. “You said they were half price. I swear, you shop just like your mum used to.”

“I know. I was thinking that when I was in the store.” Arya liked hearing the comparison out loud. “She was good at finding the best deals.”

“I think that’s just a mum thing.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Deciding she was too hungry to talk, Arya hopped off the bed and pulled a Cup of Noodles from the box on the floor. She poured some water in the foam cup and placed it in the microwave, not caring about the proper directions, and let it heat while she returned the cans on Jon’s bed back to their homes in the cabinets. It was a strangely calming routine after months of homelessness. She had never been so grateful for four walls, or the simple pleasures of a microwave and a real bed. It was hard to take anything for granted anymore. Not when she’d had nothing for so long.

A commercial break had ended by the time Arya nestled at Jon’s side with her dinner. She twirled her fork in the cooked noodles and blew away the steam as she listened to the headlines. Updates on Prince Renly and an actor Sansa used to fawn over, Queen Myrcella’s marriage to some Spanish guy, stuff about the American election that Arya couldn’t care less about. She considered changing the channel until Ramsay Bolton’s face flashed center-screen, with the words “BOLTON HEIR WIDENS SEARCH FOR SANSA STARK” running below. “Turn it up,” urged Arya. “That’s Ramsay. See him?”

“Yeah, I see ‘im.” Jon turned up the television to hear the broadcaster’s report.

_“Over one month has passed since the disappearance of Chief Justice Eddard Stark’s last surviving child, and not a single tip has led to her rescue. Investigators feel certain they are searching for a body instead of a living teenager, but Ramsay Bolton, her fiancé, refuses to give up hope. At a press conference earlier this morning, he announced that he would widen his search with the help of Home Secretary Lannister. Take a look.”_

The screen changed to footage from the press conference. Arya scowled at Ramsay’s false tears and Tywin Lannister standing tall beside him. She knew how to read people. “Liars,” she muttered.

 _“We are doing everything we can to locate the Stark girl,”_  assured Tywin.  _“One month without a trace doesn't mean her fate is sealed. We are still following leads on potential kidnappers or locations she may have run to. I am confident that Sansa Stark is still alive, and will do all I can to recover her intact.”_

 _“Please,”_  pleaded a weeping Ramsay.  _“I’ll double the reward money if you want. Nobody can replace her, she’s everything to me and I just want to hold her again.”_

“Liar,” Arya said louder. “Look at him. He’s a terrible actor.”

“Not to mention Tywin Lannister’s with ‘im,” said Jon. “He hated our family. So did Cersei, especially after the whole Joffrey thing. Why would he be in on the search for Sansa now?”

“To kill her, probably. Or take her again to get Father’s money.” Arya sighed in frustration. “I bet he’s using MI5’s intel, too.”

“Yeah.”

When the news moved on to the weather forecast, Jon turned down the volume and looked to his sister. “Do you think Sansa’s really out there?” he asked. “It’s been so long.”

“So? People thought I was dead too. I survived.”

“That’s different. You weren’t a prisoner.”

“No, I was just in a car crash.” Arya gave him a sour look. Jon regretted his words and apologized, but Arya knew he hadn’t meant to be spiteful, so she forgave him. “I think she’s alive. Ramsay’s still trying to look for her, so they clearly don’t know where she is. And if  _they_ don’t know, she’s gotta be on the move or something. Maybe with homeless people like I was.”

“Or being protected by someone.” Jon frowned. “Either way, I don’t think she’s completely safe.”

“Nope. Not with Shitface Bolton or Queen Crazy running about.”

Jon stared at her. Arya stared back, raising her brow in question, but her brother only chuckled and turned back to the screen. The news switched over to a gameshow neither of them had interest in, so Jon turned off the telly and placed the remote back on the nightstand. “What time is it?”

Arya leaned over. “Clock reads ten.”

Jon yawned, stretching his good arm and scratching his beard. “I should probably change this, then.” He pointed to his shoulder. “Mind gettin’ me my bag?”

“Sure.” Arya slid off the bed and grabbed Jon’s Night’s Watch bag, where all the medical supplies had been stashed. She brought it to her brother and helped him remove his shirt, careful not to aggravate the healing wound, and from there he was able to redress and clean it the way Yoren had instructed. Arya watched him work. His body held so many new scars; Arya recognized the shapes of blades and bullets, each with their own story to tell.  _What did you go through?_  she wanted to ask. But Jon never talked, so she didn’t pry. He would tell her when he wanted to.

Arya set Jon's bag on the floor when he was done, but a loud thump called her attention back to it. She picked it up again. Jon pulled his shirt back over his head as Arya removed the medical things from his bag in search of what had made the noise. A yellow scarf sat at the bottom, soft in texture and smelling faintly of jasmine. Something was wrapped inside. “What’s this?”

Jon looked over. His eyes became glazed with more agony than she’d ever seen, and it worried her beyond reassurance. “Things,” he ground out. “For the family.”

Arya removed the scarf and the mysterious items inside, setting it all on her lap. She opened it carefully. Wrapped within the scarf were small gifts and trinkets from different parts of the world, all in various shapes and sizes, each for a certain member of the Stark family. Arya picked up the small folded yarmulke, hand-stitched with a golden Star of David in the center. “For Bran,” said Jon. “I saw a woman selling them when I was in Israel. Thought he’d like one, since he wore them all the time.”

 _Bran would have loved this,_  thought Arya.  _He would’ve thanked you a hundred times._  She set aside the yarmulke to pick out Jon’s other gifts, and listened as Jon explained them. “A hamsa for Robb and Talisa’s home, from a village in Afghanistan. A mancala set from Egypt for Rickon.” Jon’s voice began to break. “Sansa, a scarf from Iran because she likes pretty things. I got your mum that rosary from Rome. I wanted the Pope to bless it, but I just missed ‘im. And the dagger’s for you.” He pointed to it. “Stiletto dagger from Austria. They called it ‘Needle’. It was a gift from the family that housed me for Rosh Hashanah, a blacksmith named Mikken. Good people. You’d’ve liked ‘em.”

So many questions ran through Arya’s head, but only one stood out. The most important. “All that time you were gone, all the places you went… You didn’t know about the fire?”

Jon shook his head. “Not until I got to Paris. That whole time, I didn’t know I was buyin’ gifts for the dead.” Arya watched his jaw tense, both of them trying to bottle their emotions because it was all they knew. “Margaery Tyrell was the woman I met there. Works for the UN. She told me they’d all died months ago in some terrible fire, that you were presumed dead and Sansa was in the hands of a psychopath. When she snuck me into London, I went to a few bars tryin’ to find some work so I could save up money to get Sansa and I to Scotland. But I was recognized. Chased by men of the Watch. They shot me, and Ghost found you.”

Arya felt like crying. Not for herself. Just for Jon. She fingered the fringe of the yellow scarf, still an unnamed possession for someone Arya must not have known. “What about this?” she asked quietly. “For Mum too?”

“No.” Jon’s voice was half a whisper. “That’s my wife’s hijab.”

 _Val._  Arya remembered him saying the name, once. Her real name was Nawal, but he’d mispronounced it as Val and she’d teased him for it. He’d called her that ever since. “You married a…”

“Yeah. I did.” Jon glanced to the scarf, every ounce of his pain shining through tear-filled eyes. “At the Wall they call ‘em Wildlings, or worse, but they’re not wild. They’re just people. Val was the protector of her village. We were ordered to shoot it down. Somethin’ about terrorists, but there weren’t any damn terrorists there, just a few families scrapin’ by. So I disobeyed my orders. I protected ‘em from the Watch. They were innocent, Arya, they didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not a crime to want to live a good life.” Jon’s eyes were so distant that Arya wondered where he was, where he was traveling back to. “Val thanked me for makin’ a case for her people. And almost every day after, I’d sneak away from the Wall to see ‘er. Met her family. Her friends. Saw her way of life. She’s beautiful, Arya, she’s just…” The words broke on his lips, followed by a heavy sigh. “A few days after Father died, men of the Watch were ordered to kill me. I still don’t know why. Sam told me to run away, so I did, but not before stoppin’ at that village. I married Val that night. And I told ‘er, “I have to find my family and make sure they’re safe. Then I’ll come back for you, and we’ll all go to Scotland or somewhere new to live free.” She agreed. I haven’t seen her since.”

Arya watched him struggle. His fists clenched and released, his breath was slow. She couldn’t let him suffer by himself. She climbed on the bed and wrapped her arms so tightly around Jon’s neck that she thought she might strangle him. He pulled her even closer. Brother and sister wept, the first time either of them had shed a tear since their reunion, and laid all their despair at each other’s feet. _Together,_  Jon had said weeks ago, but only now did Arya feel bonded with him again.

Arya pulled away, laughing at how relieved she felt to finally, _finally_ cry. She settled comfortably across from Jon and reached for her noodles, now cold. “Tell me about her,” said Arya. “Tell me everything there is to know about Val. Tell me what happened while you were away.”

And he did. Jon relayed every detail of his near six-month journey from Afghanistan to London. He told her about the families he stayed with during Ramadan, how Palestine was a rare safe haven when constantly on the run. He talked about dyeing Ghost different colors just to make him fit in. He recalled all the people he’d met and the close encounters he’d endured, and the people he’d killed just to see his family again. The clock passed midnight by the time Jon was done. Neither of them wanted to sleep, so Arya shared her story too, of the fighting and the homelessness and Jaqen’s drug-dealing, how Yoren had dragged her from the car crash that killed their father. How she’d done all she could to survive.

Whatever tension had been between them evaporated. Released, like a river from a dam. Jon and Arya were united, working toward one goal, toward Sansa. Brother and sister slept side-by-side, Ghost snoring at their feet, and Arya drifted to the world of dreams hoping that her story could have a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would literally eat myself for the stark kids fyi  
> POC WILDLINGS? WHAAAAT. Yeah. It just isn't realistic for them to be white folks. Before anyone rips me apart, no, I'm not implying that the people of Afghanistan are "wild" or "savage"; that's merely what the _soldiers_ would think of them. Islamophobia is more rampant in the military than you'd think. Such are the tragedies of war. (Also, I love Val. Sorry for those expecting Ygritte. I personally prefer Val over Ygritte anyway, whoops. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)  
>  This chapter hopefully answered some questions, made ya teary and posed a few more inquiries for you, dear fans! Arya is difficult to write because her narrative is much more stripped and basic, whereas Sansa and Petyr are elaborate people, which aligns better with my personal writing style. This is definitely a learning experience. I hope I've been getting her voice right; I'm not worried about the others as I am about Arya. Tricky lil thing, so hard to pin down correctly.  
> Also, next Saturday's update is some JUICY SIN, LEMME TELL YA. **JUICY. SIN.** Y'all gonna trip.  
>  See you then! ;) and thank you so much for your continued support!


	7. Deep Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[your heart is as black as night; melody gardot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kmc1XN3iVVc)] ◆ [[dangerous woman; ariana grande](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9WbCfHutDSE)]   
> 

  
**10 DECEMBER, 2016**

_“Oh my god. Sansa, that’s…”_

She lay back on her bed, feet hanging over the edge with her phone pressed to her ear. Jeyne was silent on the other line, either in shock or disgust or shame, Sansa didn’t know. She stayed quiet until her best friend spoke again. Her voice was heavy with regret.

_“I had no idea what was happening. Oh Sansa, I should have done something. Said something.”_

“It’s okay, Jeyne. You didn’t know.”

_“But I should have.”_  Sansa heard Jeyne sit down on a creaky mattress. Stanford wasn’t giving her the best accommodations, apparently. _“The post to your Instagram was sketchy at best, and you never said much when I messaged you on Facebook. I didn’t even think it could be someone else behind your accounts.”_  

“Yeah.” Jeyne  _should_  have known something was wrong, Sansa couldn’t deny it, but it wasn’t in her nature to hold grudges anymore. Life was too short. “But don’t hold it against yourself. I forgive you.”

_“I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”_  Jeyne began to cry. Sansa frowned at her tears, but part of her was grateful that her friend felt such remorse. It made forgiveness easier.  _“If I’d called the police and reported it, maybe something could’ve been done.”_

“The police are bought, Jeyne. That’s why your parents had to move to California with you. It wasn’t safe for them after I left that message. That’s my fault.”

_“No, none of this is your fault. Okay? You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, don’t let yourself think that you caused this.”_

Sansa couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.” She sat up on her bed, toying with the hem of her cream-colored skirt and remembering the good times she and Jeyne had. Childhood memories weren’t easily tainted. “It’s… it’s alright now, actually. I’m doing better.”

_“I’m so glad.”_  Jeyne sniffled.  _“I know you can’t tell me where you are, but are you safe at least? Away from that psychopath?”_

“Yeah, I’m in a good place. In another country.” Sansa looked to Mayana, who was sitting at a table by the window and playing cards with Olyvar. She gave a wink and a thumbs up to approve Sansa’s white lie. “I’ve got friends here. Every day we have little therapy sessions. Today we talked about how important it is to be able to tell my story, now that I'm strong enough, and you were the first person I thought to call.”

_“Oh, Sansa. I just want to hug you.”_

“I hope you can soon.”

Sansa walked to her bedroom window, peeking between the blinds. Petyr and Ros were standing in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by a dozen young models all dressed for the winter weather. They listened intently to Petyr's unheard direction. “I’m getting an education too,” said Sansa. “I’m studying anatomy right now.”

_“That’s cool. To be a doctor or something?”_

“I’m not sure. I’m just… just learning, I guess.” Petyr smacked the behind of one of the women. Sansa scoffed and looked away, distracting herself with a different topic. “There’s some interesting things in the body, though. Did you know the appendix is shaped like a finger? I’d always thought it was more like the liver or something.”

“Yes,” said Olyvar. “It’s like a _little finger_  inside you.”

Sansa gasped. Mayana burst into hysteric laughter, slapping the table with her hand.

_“What’s going on?”_

“I — oh my God, Jeyne, I’m sorry. Just some of the people here. They’re being gross.” Sansa shot Olyvar a look. “I’m sorry, I have to go soon. I just wanted to call you and… you know, tell you that I’m okay.” She switched the phone to her other ear, pinching it between head and shoulder so she could straighten her bed. “It’s getting late for you, isn’t it? Like two in the morning?”

_“Yeah, it’s late. But I wanted to answer the phone for you.”_

_Oh, Jeyne._  Sansa had forgotten how much she'd missed the comforts of close friendship. “Thanks. I really appreciate it." 

_“No problem. I missed you, and I’m really glad you told me all this. We should talk every day. I’m gonna keep tabs on you this time.”_

“Okay,” chuckled Sansa. “Get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

_“Yep yep. Night, love.”_

“Goodnight.” Sansa hung up the phone. The moment she did, Olyvar joined in Mayana’s laughter.

“You are such a freak!” cackled Mayana. “Pete would give you a raise if he’d heard you say that. 'Little finger inside you.' Classic.”

“It was too good to resist.” Olyvar glanced out the window. Sansa joined him, watching the young women in the courtyard pick out Christmas lights from the arms of a very happy Petyr Baelish. “Seems like there’s more than enough of him to go around. Poor Sansa may never get a taste.”

Sansa sighed. They’d all been teasing her since they discovered how close she and Petyr had become. All it took was a text from a frightened Sansa in the night, and Petyr would come into her bed with open arms to lull her to sleep. Sansa didn’t take offense at her friends’ jokes. If anything, they made her laugh too. But seeing Petyr act so filthy with other women made her stomach turn, and not in the good way. “He’s being awful with them,” she said when Petyr began touching the hair of one of the redhead models. “He’s so…physical.”

“He’s always been like that,” Mayana replied. “Especially with redheads.” A wink. Sansa’s cheeks flushed. “He’s not actually attached to any of those girls, though. He just pays them extra to do outside work because he hates getting his hands dirty.”

“Four?” asked Olyvar, gesturing to Mayana’s cards.

“Go fish, gay boy.”

Sansa huffed. “But why does he have to touch them? It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Oh, the girls adore him. He’s all they talk about when I’m around.” Olyvar drew a card from the center pile and frowned at what he received. “They’re all dying to know if Littlefinger’s finger is truly little at all.”

“Good luck.” Mayana snorted. “I never understood why he doesn’t just fuck every single one of them. They’re hotter than sin.”

Sansa shook her head. “Why would he—” Wait, why wouldn’t he? He was Littlefinger, after all, and Littlefinger always got what he wanted. Women were likely no exception.

“Pete doesn’t just sleep around, contrary to what others like to believe. I can’t even remember the last person.” Mayana leaned back in her chair. “God, who was it?”

“Margaery Tyrell, I think.” Olyvar laid down a matching pair of cards. “They’re always tearing each other’s clothes off when politics get heated. But that’s been…what, a few months?”

“Probably.” Mayana shrugged. “He hasn't seen her since we picked up a pretty homeless girl. Poor Margaery doesn’t even come close.”

_Now_  their jokes made Sansa uncomfortable. She held herself, looking down at Petyr and his entourage. He made eye contact with her. Petyr gave her a wry smile before wrapping his arm around the nearest girl, who laughed and leaned into him.

“He’s disgusting,” Sansa decided. She hoped he saw her disapproval. She pushed away from the window and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” called Olyvar.

“Kitchen. I want some water.” 

Sansa left without another word.

She shouldn’t be so upset. Petyr was a scoundrel, notorious for his affections with young women and his deceit with everyone else. But Sansa had thought she'd meant more to him.  _I trusted him with my body and he uses girls like that._  She felt mistreated and put aside, as ridiculous as it seemed. There was nothing romantic between them. Sansa stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water and drank it eagerly.  _Let him do what he wants. Why should I care?_

“Oh, Littlefinger!” cooed a sing-song voice. Sansa turned, watching Petyr kiss one of his girls on the cheek as he stood in the kitchen doorway. “You’re such a pervert. I don’t know why I come here.”

“I do.” Petyr motioned with his head to the outdoors. “Go on, Kayla. Tell the others I want it all done by the time I return.”

“Anything for you.” The woman, named Kayla, gave Petyr a flirtatious wink before closing the back door. Sansa straightened her spine. Petyr seemed quite pleased with himself, buttoning his double-breasted coat and grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. He paused when he saw Sansa leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

“Interesting group,” fired Sansa. She took a drink of water. “How old are they? University-aged? Just a few years older than me?”

Petyr smirked in that frustrating way of his. “Around there,” he confirmed. “They make the most eager participants.”

Sansa scowled. She turned away from him to glare out the opposite window, her back facing Petyr entirely. “Lucky you.”

She heard his footsteps. Sansa could feel Petyr move beside her, but she didn’t look at him, not even when he faced her fully. “Do you know who these women are, Sansa?”

“No, but you seem to be quite familiar with them.”

“I am. They work for me.” Petyr reached and gently turned her chin, fixing his eyes on hers. “I run London’s red-light district. They are my employees, Sansa, and I pay them extra to keep the aesthetic of my estate up and running.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “I — prostitutes? But that’s illegal.”

“When has the law ever stopped me before? I own a brothel that poses as a strip club. I am a purveyor of beauty  _and_  discretion.” He lowered his hand from her face. “I’m not fucking them if that’s what you’re worried about. Every businessman knows never to take from his own stock.”

“I wouldn’t — I’m not —” Sansa felt heat rise in her face.  _So_ that’s _what Mayana was talking about._  She felt foolish. “You just… seemed so happy around them, I thought—”

“You thought I was touching them because it pleased me.” Petyr was so amused that he smiled wider than she’d ever seen. She hated him for it. “It’s just a game, my dear, one I play with all the young women who work for me. They consent to it, I promise. And the only pleasure I take is watching them battle each other for my affection.” He placed a hand on the back of her shoulder. Sansa wished it wasn't so relaxing.

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

“I didn’t think I had to. The Mockingbird is only a side-business as far as I’m concerned.” Petyr brushed her cheek with his knuckles in a way that made her shiver. He stepped closer, invading the walls that were barely raised between them. “Do you honestly think a few whores could please me more than what I already have?”

Sansa stomach flipped as if he’d shaken her. “I don’t know.”

“You should. Especially by now.” Petyr kissed her cheek, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. Sansa knew she should be frightened of him, of his unsubtle advances and secrets and plots, but she wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of Petyr Baelish. Only of the effect he had, and the sudden aches he brought. “I’m not happy because of the company, Sansa. I’m happy because today is a good day. A day for business, for our plans, and for me.” Sansa caught the fire in his stare when he pulled back. It engulfed her and she nearly reached out to touch him again. “I’ll be home before eight. I expect to test you on the organs in the body, as promised.”

“Tonight?” Sansa fought to regain her senses. She clutched her cup for sanity. “I — if you’re busy, we can do it another time.”

“No, it’s alright. I’m looking forward to it.” Petyr turned away with mischief in his eyes. “Study  _hard._ ”

He left Sansa there, standing in the whirlwind he’d pushed her to. How long had it been since she’d wanted someone? Months? Years? Centuries? So long, she’d almost forgotten what the craving could feel like. She chased away his ghost by chugging the water in her glass, hoping clarity would surface at the bottom.

Sansa finished her drink and left the kitchen when she heard Ros squeal with joy. The front living room had become a scattered mess, open boxes labeled “CHRISTMAS” swallowing the furniture. Ros was in the process of untangling a row of garland and Mayana was scrolling through her phone near the speakers, picking holiday music. Olyvar opened a box of lights. They all looked up at Sansa when she entered. “Look at you!” called Ros. “So cute with your lacy skirt. You’ll match the decorations.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Sansa asked, feeling the tension in her body dissipate. She approached one of the boxes and pulled out a few golden Christmas trees, knickknacks for the mantle, and an antique nativity that looked hand-painted. “I didn’t think Petyr was the religious type.”

“Oh, he’s not. A complete atheist.” Ros pulled down the black drapery in favor of gold and crimson. “I was raised in church though, believe it or not, and Olyvar comes from the most snot-nosed Christian family you’ll ever meet. We’re not as faithful as you are, but little things like a nativity are a nice touch.”

Sansa could understand that. She glanced around the room to find a place for the nativity scene, wondering if she was allowed to put it up. Ros noticed her confusion. She took the remaining pieces from the box and smiled in assurance to Sansa. “Help us decorate, love. This is your home too. Come be a part of it.”

_Home,_  Sansa thought. For the first time, looking in Ros’s sea-blue eyes, she felt those words were true. Ros and Sansa decorated the nativity atop a shelf near the manor’s entrance, and when Mayana started playing holiday tunes, the group of friends set about their work.

The bannisters were wrapped in garland and ribbons, strung with lights that sparkled off-white. The curtains were switched, linens and towels and rugs replaced to reflect a theme of warmth and togetherness. Poinsettia plants added small splashes of festivity in the corner of every eye. The Christmas tree was raised by the living room’s hearth, a massive thing nearly twice Sansa’s height that required a ladder just to hang ornaments. Olyvar nearly broke his leg standing on the highest rung, and if it wasn’t for Sansa holding the base, he might have done so. The four of them kept watch for each other, helping when needed and singing together when the song was right. Sansa kept thoughts of her old family and new in her heart while she worked.

The group took a break after a few hours to roast pumpkin seeds and tell stories over apple cider. By the time seven o’clock had come and gone, the prostitutes — or as Ros preferred to call them, “working girls” — had finished hanging the lights outside, making Petyr’s Cotswolds manor come alive as if from the pages of a fairy tale. Sansa was so pleased that she’d applauded their work and taken pictures. When the girls were sent home and the night too chilly to stay outside, the four friends returned to the living room’s hearth and lit a fire, adding final touches here and there to make everything look immaculate. Ros hung a few stockings that had names stitched down the sides. Sansa couldn’t read them from where she sat on the couch, cradling a handful of pumpkin seeds in her hands.

_Stockings were hung by the chimney with care._  Sansa remembered her father, of all people, reading The Night Before Christmas to his children every holiday. She smiled to see a set of stockings in this new home, four of them lined up in a row. Sansa leaned her head to the side and tried to read the names. “Who are those for?”

“Lothor’s kids,” said Mayana. “You haven’t met them yet, but you will. He spends every Christmas here with his family.”

“And those horrible triplets.” Olyvar shuddered in his chair. “I don’t know what I’ll do if they break my car window again.”

“Please. They’re angels if you treat them nicely.” Ros lit a candle that smelled of holly and cinnamon. “Mya’s raising them right.”

“How old are they?” asked Sansa.

“The triplets are eight and their daughter is… three?” Olyvar guessed. “The boys are Robert, Myson and Lothor Jr., but we all call him Little Lothor. And their daughter is Alyssa.”

“Alyssa is beyond precious, Sansa. You’ll adore her.” Ros took a seat in the armchair opposite Olyvar, and Mayana hopped on the couch beside Sansa. She giggled and propped her feet on Mayana’s lap. All four of them sat around the crackling fire, content to rest after a long day.

“So… who are Lothor and Mya?” Sansa asked. “More of your friends?”

“Lothor is our super-secret agent in MI5,” Mayana replied. “Been in Pete’s group about as long as Ros has, maybe a bit longer. Mya’s his wife. She’s a vet. You’ll meet them at the Christmas party.”

Sansa snorted. “Petyr hosts a Christmas party? So much about that doesn’t make sense.”

“He does! Well, we do.” Mayana adjusted her legs so Sansa’s feet could rest on her thighs. “We convinced him a few years ago to throw a party every year and invite his closest minions. Keeps everyone loyal, you know. People are more likely to work for someone who’s nice and generous versus a complete dick.”

“And Petyr isn’t nice  _or_  generous, but he can put on a show for one night.” Olyvar grinned in a way that was so very Baelish. “We have a few people over to the house and we drink and talk and mingle. There’s a lot of hard work in this business, Sansa. It’s nice to be able to unwind once a year, if only for a day.”

“Not to mention the fabulous decorations,” said Ros with pride. She admired the room they’d slaved over. “It gives a nice change to the place.”

Sansa could hardly believe there would be a Christmas party, but the thought excited her. “My family had parties too,” she said. “We were a Jewish family officially, but Christmas was the one thing my mother wanted to keep from her Catholic traditions. We’d have family and friends over, Jewish and not, and we’d all just… celebrate. Even though some of us were celebrating different things.” Sansa smiled at the memories, rubbing her Star pendant between her fingers. “It’ll be nice to have some of that back again.”

Mayana patted Sansa’s shin in assurance. “We won’t disappoint. We’ll have tons of food to make. Tyrion always brings Turkish delicacies because of Shae, and Mya makes this bitchin’ potato salad,  _oh!_  It’s just—”

The front door banged open. Sansa jumped. She didn’t see Petyr’s face over the edge of the couch, but she heard his voice, rushed and sinister as he slammed the door. “All three of you,” he spat. “With me.”

Olyvar was the first to leave, giving Sansa a gentle touch on the shoulder, telling her silently to stay put. Mayana slipped out from under Sansa’s feet and Ros followed suit. Sansa was left by herself, chilled from the ice in Petyr’s tone.

_Why doesn’t he ask for me?_  Sansa thought.  _I could help too. This is my home now, they’ve all said it._  She peered over the back of the sofa. Sansa heard Petyr’s door close upstairs, and the sink water in his bathroom began to run. There could be punishment in poking where she wasn’t invited, but Sansa was worried for him. Petyr had been happy earlier in the day. Flirty, even. What changed?

She stood from the couch. Sansa crept carefully up the steps, quiet as could be, and tiptoed down the hall. She heard their voices, but couldn’t make out any words. Sansa cracked open the bedroom door to hear them.

“…believe you went that far, Petyr. It’s not like you.”

“Don’t remind me.” Petyr sounded stressed, which made Sansa worry more.

“When was the last time you got hurt on a hit?”

“A long time ago.”

“You didn’t get any blood on him, did you?”

“Do you think I’m completely incapable of doing my job?” snapped Petyr. Sansa flinched when she heard glass shatter. “Shit.”

“That’s alright. I’ll get more.” Ros left Petyr’s bathroom and headed toward her. Sansa didn’t have time to react. She stepped backwards when Ros opened the door to see her standing petrified, straight as a rod. There was blood on Ros’s hands. The woman was sad when she looked at Sansa, but said nothing to protest her eavesdropping. She walked to the small closet down the hall and retrieved a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some medical tape. She passed Sansa, raising her finger to her lips as a signal to keep quiet. Sansa nodded. Ros reentered Petyr’s room and left the door open an inch so Sansa could hear them.

“Did you get what you needed, at least?” asked Olyvar.

“Of course I did.” Petyr was frustrated, but his arrogance remained. “It was easier than I thought.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Mayana’s voice was filled with a fear Sansa didn’t recognize. “You’re bleeding, Pete. Worrying aside, that’s evidence on a body.”

“What body?” He scoffed. “Come on, Mayana. All three of you. Do you doubt me so much?”

“Where this is concerned, actually, yes.”

Petyr laughed bitterly. He stopped with a sudden hiss of pain, likely from the alcohol. Sansa chewed her lip. “He made remarks about her. I didn’t tolerate it. Nothing I couldn’t handle, it’s all taken care of.”

“Who are we pinning the death on?” asked Olyvar.

“Gregor Clegane. Only reasonable party. He’s not like to deny it and the Lannisters won’t send him to prison. The two were brawling just last night at a local. Perfect timing.”

“They never did like each other,” said Ros. “Can’t imagine why.”

“What did he say about Sansa?” asked Mayana.

“Nothing you want to hear.”

“Enough to make you beat him bloody, that’s for sure.”

Petyr sighed. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. I got what I went for, and Varys delivered.”

“If you say so.”

There was a long pause before Petyr spoke again. “I’ll be done here in a minute. Mayana, get ahold of the Hardyng boy. I want that meeting moved up. And tell Sansa to prepare for that anatomy test, I’d like to see her before I get to work.”

Sansa’s hand slid down the door.  _He murdered someone,_  she thought, horrified.  _For me._  Sansa had known this path of vengeance would lead to violence, but who had Petyr killed? What was their crime? Sansa fled to the living room when Olyvar and Ros left the bathroom, and she sat on her couch with her pumpkin seeds, afraid to learn the truth.

She waited for him. Knees held together, hands in her lap. She wrung her fingers and curled her hair behind her ear, chipping away at her snack until the seeds were gone. Olyvar and Ros offered tea, but she turned it down, feeling as though she’d vomit if she ingested anything else. She waited for what felt like hours until Petyr cleared his throat, and Sansa turned around.

He was standing in the doorway. The sleeves of Petyr's shirt were rolled up to his elbows, one hand in his pocket while the other held a glass of whiskey. Sansa wasn’t afraid of him when he sat beside her, but she was afraid of how her body would respond to him, how her skin would pimple with goosebumps and her bones would shudder if he spoke too low. Petyr leaned against the arm of the couch, facing her.  _He knows I heard._  Sansa cleared her throat. “Who did you kill?” she asked.

“Vargo Hoat.” Petyr smiled into his glass when he took a sip. “I’m sure you remember him.”

She did. Vargo was a brutish man, terrifying despite his lisp and prone to joining Ramsay in his gruesome games. He had once joked that Sansa would be his next spoil if Ramsay let him “have a turn”. Of the few blessings she’d had during her stay with the Boltons, avoiding Vargo’s lust was one of the greatest. “He was so huge,” she recalled. “How did you…”

“How did a small man like me kill someone like Vargo Hoat?” Petyr chuckled. “You underestimate me.”

Sansa watched him take a drink. The knuckles of his right hand were wrapped in bandages, and she could smell the Neosporin from across the couch. She reached forward and took the whiskey from him. Petyr stayed still when she placed the liquor on the table and pulled his hand toward her, brushing her thumb along his knuckles. “You beat him.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I needed information.” He didn't remove his hand from hers. “Most men aren’t willing to speak unless their tongues are loosened first.”

“You tortured him, then?”

“I did what was necessary.”

Sansa frowned. This was part of the plan, she knew it shouldn’t bother her, but she was a gentle girl with gentle thoughts. Violence was something her father had disdained. And yet, perhaps if he’d been harsher in certain punishments, many of the things that happened to their family may never have come to pass.  _Vargo Hoat can't hurt anyone again. How could I be sad about that?_

“You didn’t wear gloves.” Sansa lifted her head to her mentor. “You left your blood behind.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. I am beyond the point of making mistakes. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

She glanced down to their hands again, trailing her fingertips lightly over the back of his palm. It was strangely peaceful, touching him like this. Initiating where he’d once been the sole initiator. “So… you got information from Vargo?”

“I did. But it's nothing you need to burden yourself with, Sansa. Not yet.” Petyr’s eyes were fixed on their hands. “Only when I’m convinced that you’re ready, will I let you in on my plans.”

Sansa couldn’t argue. She’d been anxious at the mere thought of murder, but organizing it? That would have to wait. “Just be careful,” she told him. “I’ve already lost one family. I can’t lose another.”

His hand slipped from hers to cup her chin. Petyr’s green eyes were filled with desire, but Sansa could see sorrow as well, no matter how he tried to mask it. “You won’t.”

After pressing a kiss to her cheek, Petyr stood. He was attractive this way, looking as though he’d conquered the world with wits and clenched fists. It was surprisingly easy to overlook what he’d done. “Now, would you like to be tested on your knowledge of human organs? That is what we intended to do tonight, yes?”

“Mhm,” said Sansa with a small smile. Her anxiety slipped away as she mentally changed focus. “Okay. Ask me.”

“Where is the pancreas?”

Sansa straightened her back and pointed to where the organ would be in her body, but Petyr shook his head. “No. Not on you,” he said lecherously. _“Me.”_

Sansa froze. His gaze was insistent, deviant as it had been before. What kind of man mixed murder and pleasure in the same night? Yet she was helpless to stop him, feeling a dull pulse in the one part of her she thought to be ruined. Sansa took an unsteady breath and rose to her feet, crossing the distance between herself and Petyr. His eyes encouraged her in a sinful way.

Sansa placed her palm below his stomach and to the left, where his pancreas would be. “Good,” Petyr said. “And what does the pancreas do?”

“It helps the small intestine break down food and regulates sugar in the body. If the pancreas doesn’t produce enough insulin, the person becomes diabetic.”

“Smart girl,” he praised. “You’re learning so well. Tell me about the spleen, Sansa.”

She moved her hand just a bit higher, and farther left. Sansa could feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. “The spleen recycles old blood cells for new ones. It helps fight diseases like meningitis.”

“And the liver?”

Her hand slid across his body, up and to the right. Sansa tried to ignore the patterns of his breathing.  _Stop getting distracted._  “The liver helps with your metabolism and breaking down old blood cells. It’s essential to live. If you don’t have a liver, you die.”

“Good. Kidneys.” Petyr smirked. Sansa knew she’d have to reach around him to find those, but perhaps that was his plan. Sansa removed her palm from his torso and walked behind him instead, placing two hands on the middle of his back. “The kidneys filter blood to make urine and get rid of waste. You need both of them to live.”

“Wrong,” he said. “A person can live with just one kidney. But you’re right enough.” Petyr scratched his chin, and Sansa swore she heard him chuckle. “Lungs.”

_What do you want from me?_  Oh, but she knew. And she was beginning to understand. He was playing a game with her now, worrying less about her knowledge and more about her touch, how far she would go when prompted. Sansa’s heart thundered. She wanted to dare. It would be easy to wrap her arms around him and touch his chest, to go wherever Petyr planned with her as if she’d never been hurt before. But after that, what would he do? Sansa couldn’t believe that the man who held her in the night would kick her to the streets once he’d taken her fully, but she’d also believed that once-gentle Ramsay Bolton would never lay a hand on her. The thought was sobering. Sansa moved around to Petyr’s front and pressed her hands to his chest, deciding not to gamble with what little ground she’d gained. “Lungs… lungs take in oxygen and release carbon dioxide,” she said in a quiet voice. “For our blood and our brain.”

“Good girl,” Petyr replied in a low growl.  _Don’t say that,_  thought Sansa,  _I like it when you say that._  She shifted her feet nervously and stopped when he said, “My turn.”

“What?” Sansa's eyes went wide. Petyr placed his hands over hers, thumbs brushing her wrists.

“Do you think I would ever hurt you, Sansa?”

“No.” Even her body knew. It did not tremble.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” What had he done to her? Sansa's mind was rattled, never on the same page as her heart where Petyr Baelish was concerned, but all frantic thought faded away when his fingertips grazed her throat.

“What is the organ here?” he asked softly.

“Larynx,” she muttered. Sansa’s body burned, the space between her legs throbbing with desire. “Voice box.”

“And here?” His fingers slid down just above her collarbone.

Sansa shivered. Her hands flexed against his chest. “T-Trachea,” she whispered. “Windpipe.”

Petyr wasn’t asking her the organs’ function anymore. He knew she was aware of his intentions, of this lesson in touch and boundary, but Sansa didn’t feel the need to run. It was liberating to be touched, so intimate without any clothing removed, where lines were drawn that made her desperate to smear them. He’d written himself into the chemistry of her. Down to every atom of her being, her body knew;  _I am safe with Petyr._

His fingers lifted to press below her jawline. Taking her pulse. Sansa met his eyes and locked with them, with his hunger and his greed and the calculation of her limits. “Are you afraid, Sansa?”

“No.”

Petyr’s other hand came to rest on the curve of her hip. Sansa was drawn closer, whether by his will or hers, she didn’t know. He cupped her neck, thumb rubbing along her jaw. “I killed Vargo Hoat because I wanted to,” growled Petyr. “I killed him because he knew you suffered and did nothing. I took his information and I sliced open his windpipe, just here—” He outlined her trachea with his fingertips. “—and I disposed of the body. No one will ever know.” Sansa shivered when he moved her hair behind her shoulder, eyeing the slope of her neck as if he would devour it. “Are you afraid now?”

“No,” she said again.

“Not at all?”

“Not at all.”

He traced down her shoulder with the tip of his finger. “May I kiss you, Sansa?”

The word came out before she considered, a heated breath between them. “Yes.”

Petyr gave a wicked smile.  _He’s going to kiss me,_  she thought.  _He’s going to kiss me because I said he could._  Sansa stood there, horrified as he came closer with clear intentions. He pressed his forehead to hers and ignited every inch of her. He cradled her neck while his other hand rested at the base of her spine, and he leaned in.

“Hey Pete! I got that German kid on the phone, says he wants to meet up.”

Sansa gasped at Mayana’s voice. She pulled away from Petyr so quickly that the back of her heel slammed into the coffee table, and Sansa cried out. Mayana looked between Petyr and Sansa, hands held out before they slapped against her thighs. “Oh no. I interrupted something.”

“Turn around and leave,” spat Petyr. “Don’t stop walking until you’re outside, and keep walking when you’re there.”

“But—” Mayana opened her mouth to protest, but she didn’t, and stood there like a child waiting to be punished. Petyr cursed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute," he said in defeat. "I want to tell Sansa goodnight.”

“Sure.”

When Petyr turned away from Mayana, Sansa watched her mouth open in shock. She waved her hands in the air and mouthed the words, “FUCK HIM.”

Petyr turned to her again. Caught in the act, Mayana hurried away to do as she’d been told.

Sansa was still breathless. She fixed her posture when Petyr faced her, heart racing. He cupped her cheek in his hand. Sansa convinced herself she was ready despite the jitter in her stomach — or was that a good thing? She didn't know. All Sansa knew was that his kiss would not be gentle, not with the way he looked at her, and a part of her hoped it wouldn’t be.

Petyr gently tilted her head to the side. Sansa gasped as his lips brushed her ear, his mustache tickling her skin, and he pressed a tender kiss to her jaw. “Goodnight, Sansa,” he said darkly. And he pulled away, leaving her alone in the room with nothing but profound need.

It took time for Sansa to remember how to walk. A part of her didn’t want to leave, convinced he might come back and continue where they’d left off, lips engaged as she’d said they could be. But Petyr did not return, and Sansa felt foolish for wanting him to. She slowly climbed the stairs to her room and closed the door. God, how he left her wanting. It infuriated her. Sansa had never been so aroused, every part of her begging to be caressed. _Was that his plan?_  she wondered.  _To help me feel something again?_

Sansa changed into a fresh pair of pajamas and slid into bed, shifting constantly when she was under the covers. All she could think of was Petyr's voice. His touch. The way he’d whispered in her ear, his lips on her jawline, rough hands and fingertips ghosting her throat…

She needed relief. Sansa bit her lip, looking around to make sure she was alone, before laying on her back with her legs slightly apart.

_I can’t do this._  Her sigh trembled. Sansa hadn’t been able to touch herself, not since Ramsay. It always ended in hopelessness and an inability to succumb.  _But that was_ _before Petyr touched me in a way that felt good, before he whispered in my ear and praised me like he did…_

Slowly, Sansa slipped her hand between her skin and cotton pajamas. She could do this, now. She could try again. Her fingers slid lower until she was there, and she gasped at how wet she was, how ready. All because of  _him._  The thought of Petyr was intoxicating.  _What would he do if he saw me like this?_  He’d kiss her entire body, she knew he would, with the way he looked at her as though she was the strongest craving he’d ever had. Petyr would keep every promise he’d made with those devilish grey-green eyes. Sansa’s hand remembered how she’d liked it before and rubbed circles over her center, slick and warm with the fever she’d been left with.

Sansa hummed as her pleasure began to build. She smiled with her exhale, having forgotten what it was like to feel _good._  Her fingers moved faster and her back arched, free hand clutching the sheets to keep her from moaning aloud.  _Petyr’s room is right across the hall,_  she thought.  _Will he be able to hear me?_

She couldn’t take much more. Sansa covered her mouth and cried out as she came, caressing herself through her peak with eyes clamped shut. She bit down on her lip and did all she could to restrain her noises, but she still made them, moaning into her hand despite the closeness of her room to his. Sansa was smiling when she fell from the high and she covered her face with her hands, laughing childishly as her eyes filled with tears.  _Oh my god. I did it. I can’t believe it, I actually got there._  

_I’m not broken after all._

Sansa wiped her eyes and continued giggling to herself as she rolled over in bed to hug a pillow. She couldn’t invite Petyr to sleep beside her now. No, he’d know what she did, and Sansa was still uncertain how far her willingness extended. But there was victory in her own touch. She’d reclaimed something Ramsay had skewered, reconquered what he’d laid to waste. It was hers again. Sansa supposed it had always been hers, but now she felt one with her own body. No one would take that away from her again.

Her eyes fluttered closed to sleep for the night. They opened again briefly as she heard steps down the hall, followed by the open and close of Petyr’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **O O F**  
>  Well, here we go kids. It's a one-way ticket to hell from here.  
> UM. YEAH. Oof. Ooohh boy. boiiii. You know it's bad when the sexual tension of these characters is so intense that I, as a writer, JUST AM CONSTANTLY DTF BECAUSE PETYR AND SANSA WANT TO FUCK SO BAD  
> @GOD @GRRM @D&D _LET ME L I V E_  
>  Would you be more at ease or less at ease if I told you that next week's chapter is better? Ahem. Sorry. There you go.  
> ALL-ABOARD THE HELLTRAIN, SEE YOU SOON SINNERS


	8. The Mockingbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[it came upon a midnight clear](https://open.spotify.com/track/6KYcjfY4bMwarxM4cwNxll)]* ◆ [[6 inch; beyoncé, the weekend](https://musicmp3.ru/artist_beyonce__album_lemonade.html#.V-YSr5MrLBI)]* ◆ [[the motto; drake, lil wayne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QE2PFJzYuYo)] ◆ [[sanctuary; allie x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBrEjsB9LFI)]   
> 

  
**13 DECEMBER, 2016**

Petyr pressed each note into existence, nimble fingers gliding over piano keys. “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” was Ros’s favorite holiday song, so he rehearsed, knowing she would request it while his party guests mingled on Christmas Eve. Petyr hated the holidays. Slipping another mask on top of the one he already wore was cumbersome, but there were benefits to keeping his people loyal. Petyr could act a role for one night. Even if it meant he couldn’t relax.

“You’ve got Ros singing up there,” said Mayana from the archway. She entered the room and sat in a chair near the piano bench, wearing a seductively short dress with her many braids tied over one shoulder. Long lashes blinked and red lips curled in a grin. “As soon as she heard the song, she goes, ‘aww! He didn’t forget!’”

“How could I? She asks me to play it every year.” Petyr began the bridge, swaying slightly with the build of the chorus. “Olyvar’s favorite is 'Silent Night'. Sansa’s is 'White Christmas,' and you don’t have one.”

“Nah. I don’t even know the words to most of them.” Mayana examined her nails in disinterest. “The Christmases I’ve had with you are the only good ones I can remember, anyway.”

“I never made the holidays exciting,” Petyr countered. “Even back then. They just slowed down business.”

Mayana snorted. “You dirty liar. I remember the first Christmas I moved in with you. I was, shit, just barely fifteen? I told you about my terrible holiday experiences and your dumb ass went out and bought me the new Outkast CD and a box of Frango’s. The next year I got a motorcycle.”

Petyr grinned at the memory. It wasn’t one he would soon forget, her rebellious eyes alight with the thought of being thought of. “I can’t stand teenagers. If I could do something to stop you from whining, I did it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” She pointed up to the ceiling as if to say,  _what about_  that  _teenager?_  Petyr only shook his head. He ended the song on a few high, floating notes, and heard Ros applaud him from upstairs. Mayana leaned her head back and shouted, “any requests from the peanut gallery?”

“No,” called Olyvar, “we’re almost done!”

Mayana squealed in excitement. “You’re gonna flip, Pete. She looks so different, but in the best way.”

Petyr rose from the bench and softly closed the expensive grand. He tried not to wince from the pain his knuckles were still giving him. “Sansa will be lovely, I’m sure. She’s supposed to look different. That’s the point.”

“She’s just as gorgeous with black hair as she is with red. But we all know you’ve got a preference.”

“Good. I’ve made no move to hide it.”

Mayana stood from her chair to fuss at Petyr’s collar. He watched her adjust it and observe his choice of attire, a light gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and charcoal slacks to match. “Your shoes are damn shiny,” she commented. “And you  _would_  wear cologne. I see you, sneaky.”

“I’m allowed to dress nice for an important client.”

“Psh. Right.” Mayana moved away from him to grab her coat, slipping it on over ebony arms. “You haven’t even met him yet and you already hate the kid. Admit it.”

“Oh, freely. But he doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to.” Petyr walked to the closet and retrieved his peacoat, buttoning it over his chest and wrapping a thick wool scarf around his neck. The weather was far too frigid to go without. “He’s a complete idiot. Perfect for the job. This meeting is nothing more than a test, Mayana. For him and for Sansa.”

“I still can’t believe you’re taking her. She’s uncomfortable with the whole idea of The Mockingbird, you know.”

Petyr sighed. Sansa had expressed hesitation when he’d brought the idea to her the day before, but he’d worked his words well enough to gain her consent. “There’s nothing for Sansa to be uncomfortable about,” said Petyr. “My establishment is one of the most well-surveilled places in London. She’ll be safer than Myrcella.”

“I’m just sayin’. She’s nervous about how people are gonna look at her with that dress on.”

Petyr shoved his hands in his pockets, merely wanting to get on with it. He’d waited long enough for Sansa’s deceitful debut. He wanted to see what his work had earned him. “Men can look, they can fantasize and remember her for later, but they cannot touch. No one would dare reach for a woman at my side. Especially when she’s posing as my daughter.”

Mayana stuck out her tongue in disgust. “That is so weird. Don’t remind me.”

Petyr smirked.

Five minutes passed before he heard them come down the stairs. Ros and Olyvar were particularly prideful as they led Sansa by the hand. “Careful love,” Ros warned. “Those heels are tall.”

Mayana leaned in close to Petyr. “Told you,” she teased. Petyr hated it when she was right.

Sansa’s delectable curves were hugged tight in a short plum-colored dress. The plunging neckline was deep, ending where her midriff began, but the generous exposure was contrasted with long sleeves and black nylons to conceal slender legs. Spiked heels made her look fierce, a killer all her own. Dyed black curls hung loose down her back and she carried a pair of winter boots, likely to change into later. Sansa smiled nervously when she saw him. She folded her hands in front of her with trademark innocence.

Petyr Baelish was not so pure. His gaze was lecherous. Sansa was weak against it, and though she was taller than him in her heels, Petyr remained dominant through eye contact alone. He watched her eyes flicker with hesitation. “I feel so naked,” she whispered. Petyr quirked his brow. “I-I mean, uncomfortable.”

“Do you?” Petyr reached out and placed his hand on her upper arm, letting it glide downward until he’d taken her hand in his. The friction was electric. “You look exquisite, Sansa. Not a soul will recognize you.”

“Thank you.” Her thumb twitched. “I don’t feel like myself.”

“Nor should you. You are Alayne tonight, my dear. No one else.” Petyr’s eyes drifted to the golden Star around her neck. It was small, not likely to be noticed, but Harrold Hardyng was exactly the kind of ingrate to make a comment. “Your necklace, however…”

“We already tried,” said Ros from the back of the room, where all three of them were watching. “She won’t take it off.”

“I never do.” Sansa stood taller, as though the Star brought courage that couldn’t be found elsewhere. “Who says your daughter can’t be Jewish? You never told me who my mother is supposed to be. If you don’t know, no one else will either.”

Petyr laughed under his breath. “Smart girl. It could give you away, but considering no one knows of my affiliation with your family, perhaps it is safe to gamble.” He gave her hand a soft squeeze. “I will warn you, though. The person we’re meeting isn’t known to be sensitive.”

“I can handle it if he says anything,” said Sansa. “I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

He didn’t doubt that. Petyr kissed her knuckles, letting his lips linger, keeping a watchful eye on her uncertain reaction. “Mayana. Ros,” Petyr said as he turned to them. “Let’s get going. We shouldn’t leave poor Harry on the hook.”

“Heaven forbid.” Ros kissed Olyvar on the cheek in farewell. She was dressed for the club, but Olyvar wasn’t, having offered to stay behind to take part in a phone conference with Olenna and Tyrion. “I’ll send you updates, love.”

“You’d better,” said Olyvar. “This is bound to get interesting.”

The four of them left the manor without further delay. Petyr helped Sansa into the backseat of his Bentley, and Olyvar waved them goodbye from the porch.

Mayana offered to drive. She pulled out onto the main road and turned on some music, but it wasn’t loud enough to thwart conversation. Petyr listened intently as Ros and Sansa chatted behind him.

“The Mockingbird’s a beautiful place,” Ros was saying. “The men are well-behaved, and those that aren’t are escorted out.”

“I’m not really afraid of men,” said Sansa. “Not after what Ramsay did to me.”

Petyr wished he hadn’t heard that. He and Mayana shared a glance before turning their eyes back to the road.

“I know, love. But a little assurance can’t hurt. The men and women we service are mostly rich people looking for a place to be discreet. Judges, policemen, lawyers, businessmen, even royalty. Anybody who wants to experience something… different.”

“How can a place be discreet if people know about it?” Sansa asked. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

“Not if you’re me,” said Petyr, unashamed to interrupt. “People who could shut down my establishment or throw me in prison are paid to keep quiet. Secrets and pounds, my dear. That’s all it takes.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is,” he replied. “Everything’s easy when you’re unbeatable.”

The rest of the ride was taken in silence.

Mayana pulled down the alley behind The Mockingbird, a hidden building in the heart of London’s nightlife, a place no one would expect. She parked by the back entrance.

“I’ll go in first,” said Ros. She opened the door and slid out the back seat, summoning Sansa to walk with her. Petyr watched Sansa give him an anxious look in the rearview mirror before following Ros’s lead, leaving her winter boots behind. Mayana didn’t speak until the door closed, and she and Petyr were given a moment’s privacy.

“Which one? Smith?”

“Ruger,” said Petyr. “Take the nine.”

From the glove compartment, Mayana pulled a Ruger 9mm pistol and loaded it with the bullets Petyr offered. One of them had to remain armed at all times. He insisted on it whenever his trusted trio did any sort of business for him. “I’ll be there in a minute,” said Mayana. “Gimme a sec to put this damn strap on my thigh.”

Petyr chuckled. Mayana was the kind of woman who would rather stuff a gun in her waistband than wear a thigh holster, but she did as Petyr instructed regardless. He exited the car and closed the door behind him.

Winter had come to London. The December evening was chillier than most, a cold so biting that it stung Petyr’s lungs with every inhale, and he was certain it would snow later. But Sansa was his focus. She was still stunning, even under unflattering alley lights. He approached her as Ros entered the club ahead of them.

Sansa didn’t smile. Her shoulders were tense. “Harry will notice your fear,” said Petyr. He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone and the corner of her mouth twitched upward.  _There you are._  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my dear. How many times must I tell you?”

“I know. I know you won’t let anything happen, but…” Sansa shifted her feet, wringing her hands in that worried way of hers. “Can I say something? Before we go in.”

“Of course.” Petyr rested his hand on her upper arm in hope of easing her.

“I just — I just want you to know that if anyone tries to touch me, I might panic. I know you all believe in me, but I’ve never been in a situation like this and I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens.” Sansa sighed in disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Your concerns are valid.” Petyr removed his hand from her. “As I said before, no one will make a move against you. Even if you weren’t mine, the people here know better than to lure a woman who doesn’t want to be lured. This place celebrates consensual sex. Freedom and liberty, not crime.” He turned back to the car as Mayana closed the door, locking it with a click of the key. She came to them with a ready expression that faltered at the sight of Sansa. “Aww,” she said. “What’s wrong, pretty girl? Got cold feet? Figuratively.”

“N-No, I’m ready. I want to do this.” Sansa squared her shoulders. “I just don’t know what to do if someone does something to me.”

“Kick ‘em.” Mayana shrugged. “Punch the bastard.”

Petyr read Sansa’s shock. “Really?”

“Yeah. Scream, flail, beat the shit out of him. The days of suffering to stay alive are over for you, you don’t have to take it.” Mayana rubbed Sansa’s arm. Petyr watched her anxiety fall away. It was incredible to him, and very frustrating, how women could reach each other in ways that no man ever could. “Make a huge scene and either I, Ros or Mr. Gross over here will come take care of it.”

“Okay.” Sansa smiled, breathing far steadier. “Thanks, Mayana. I feel better.”

“Good,” Petyr jutted in. “Let’s get moving.”

Sansa slipped her arm in Petyr’s when he offered, and Mayana held open the door. They entered a long hallway, the sound of heavy bass and laughter bleeding through the walls. “Hold tight to me,” Petyr said to Sansa alone, “and no harm will come to you.”

She took his advice. He turned the knob on the club’s entrance and pulled open the door.

The Mockingbird was elegant, with no lack of depravity. A horde of freaks and perverts. A place of retreat from the constraints of society. Colored lights flashed through a crowd that jumped to a rapid beat on the dance floor. A group to his left took turns snorting cocaine off the body of a stripper. Three women under a spotlight swung naked around poles in hanging cages, tossing their lacy bras to lustful men begging for a better view. Several of the girls who’d helped with the Christmas lights gave lap dances to the gentlemen of a bachelor’s party, smoking as their hips rolled to a filthy beat. Petyr felt Sansa tense on his arm. If she was afraid, she made no show of it. Her eyes were light and observant, flicking from one scene to the next as her expression remained neutral. He would have to praise her for her strength later. Such a brave girl, his Sansa. So resilient.

Littlefinger greeted some of the working girls as he passed, though his destination was clear. Harold Hardyng was several drinks into his visit, hands on the thigh of the girl nearest to him as he said something in her ear. Two other women refilled the vodka in his glass. _Greedy_ , Petyr observed. _No control. Lothor was right about this one, he’ll do nicely._

“Mr. Hardyng,” said Littlefinger, spreading his hands as if addressing an old friend.  _“Schön dech kennezlerne.”_

Harry looked up. He was a handsome kid, blonde hair and blue eyes reflecting his German ancestry. He stood from his chair and held out his hand. “Ah, Littlefinger! _Freue mich auch, dich kennen zu lernen.”_

Petyr already hated him. Too informal. He faked politeness and shook hands with the German boy, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it. I trust you’re enjoying The Mockingbird?”

“Yes, very much. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Good to hear.” Littlefinger pressed his hand against the small of Sansa’s back, rubbing softly along her spine in encouragement. “This is my daughter, Alayne. She will join us during our negotiations.”

Harry’s expression grew lustful when he looked at Sansa. Petyr's possessiveness came alive, but he humored the interaction for now. Harry offered his hand. “I didn’t know the infamous Littlefinger had a daughter. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alayne.”

“No, Mr. Hardyng, the pleasure is mine.”

Petyr turned to her. Sansa had flipped an inner switch, transforming from victim to player in the blink of an eye. She let Harry kiss her hand and smiled in a way Petyr knew to be flirtatious. “I’ve heard many things about you from my father. He assures me you’re the perfect man for the job.”

“I hope to be,” said Harry. “If it is enough to impress a woman like you, I’ll do all I can.”

“I look forward to it.”

 _Clever girl._  Petyr didn’t know why he’d ever worried. Of course she’d been learning his lessons, how could he deny it? Petyr brushed his thumb along her back to praise her. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? The sooner we attend to business, the sooner Mr. Hardyng can return to Armeca and Daisy here.”

The prostitutes giggled. Petyr knew false laughter when he heard it. Harry beamed at Sansa in agreement, not Littlefinger, before following Mayana’s lead through various perversions.

One of the many rooms at the back of The Mockingbird was kept separate from the others. Plush couches, curtains, opulent incense and shelves of adult toys lined the walls of a room meant for orgies as well as formal arrangements. Petyr had forgotten about those. He smirked at Sansa, catching the flush of color in her cheeks. He wondered if she’d ever seen anything like this, explored how positive sex could be. Had she been a virgin, before? Sansa looked away as if she knew what he was thinking. She moved from Petyr’s roaming hand and sat on the blood red sofa, removing her coat and folding her hands in her lap. Petyr did the same. Harry sat on the opposite couch and accepted a drink from Ros, who acted deceptively as a server. “So good,” said Harry in his heavy accent. “The drinks, all the women, everything. You are lucky to own a place like this, Littlefinger. I would never leave.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Petyr accepted his favorite whiskey from Ros and Sansa was offered a full martini glass. He smirked as Sansa tasted it, no doubt expecting liquor, only to be surprised with a cup full of flavored water. _You’re not old enough yet,_  Petyr teased with his eyes. Sansa huffed.

“So.” Harry leaned back on the sofa, relaxed. “I hear you need someone killed.”

“Many someones.” Petyr lit a cigarette and tossed his lighter on the table with a clatter. “I hear you’re quite the skilled assassin.”

“When I want to be.” Harry shrugged. “Money is a nice motivator.”

“Then I suppose it is good that I have money.” Petyr drew from his tobacco and blew smoke into the air. “There are seven targets. Discretion is key. I don’t want this coming back to me, and neither do you.”

“Ooh, I’m intrigued.” Harry leaned forward. “Where is this list?”

Petyr flicked the ashes of his cigarette. “It’s not the targets that are important, necessarily. I need these deaths to look less like hits and more like unfortunate accidents.”

“Sounds easy enough, if I’m given time.” Harry took a drink. “If the victims are connected, won’t people suspect?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Littlefinger. “I need to make someone paranoid. Someone who will spend hours pouring over evidence and find not a shred of proof that their life is in danger, but deep down, they’ll know they’re next. They’ll fear.”

Harry laughed. “I’ve heard of your cleverness, Littlefinger, but I had no idea you were so devious too.”

“Then you haven’t heard very much.” Petyr took a long sip of his whiskey, aware of Sansa waiting for him to arrive at the point. She didn’t know  _what_  Harry was needed for, only that he was needed. Littlefinger lifted his stare to his German guest. “Here are the names, then: Preston Greenfield, Osmund Kettleblack, Balon Swann, Meryn Trant, Boros Blount, Mandon Moore, and Gregor Clegane.”

Harry’s smile fell. Sansa shifted beside him. Littlefinger knew he’d succeeded in shocking them both. “You’re mad,” spat Harry. “I may be foreign, but I know who those people are. They’re Cersei Lannister’s pets.”

“Her favorites,” Petyr confirmed. “I want them all to die.”

“Father?” Sansa questioned. Petyr looked at her with a spark of amusement. “How can Mr. Hardyng kill all seven of those men? Especially Gregor, he’s… terrifying. Massive.”

“That isn’t for you to worry about, my dear. Harry is a professional. He won’t fail, especially when I mention his reward.” Littlefinger turned to him. “Isn't that right?”

“Depends.” Harry scowled. “That’s a lot of men. I didn’t come here to bring down an army.”

“Hm. Shame.” Petyr shrugged, a rouse, and stood from the sofa. “I suppose that concludes our business, then. I will find a different assassin eager to make a million euros.”

Littlefinger casually sipped his drink as Harry and Sansa gasped. “One  _million?_ ” barked Harry. “You can’t be serious. I want to see.”

Petyr snapped his fingers. Mayana, who had been standing silently the entire time, brought forth a silver briefcase and opened it. Inside was one million euros, all real, all well-intended. Littlefinger watched greed ignite in Harry’s eyes. “You'll be paid a small portion for each death.”

“How do I know this isn’t some trick?” asked Harry. “Some lie?”

“Ah, yes. That.” From underneath the stacks of fresh euros, Petyr retrieved a piece of paper. A contract. “Sign this,” he said. “It ensures that I will hold up my end of the bargain if you do yours.”

Harry took the paper from Petyr. He scanned it over, frowning on occasion, likely at the clause that more-or-less stated a claim to Harry’s life if he failed. Littlefinger waited until Harry had read it thrice over before handing him a pen. His signature was victory. Petyr passed the contract to Mayana, who also signed it, and placed it with the money when she was done. “You’ll hear from me soon,” said Petyr, content to leave.

“Those are difficult targets,” said Sansa. Her voice was seductive in a way he’d never heard from her. “They're going to be hard to take down. I’d be so impressed, you know. Killing seven highly-trained men takes skill and strength. And any man with a million euros is worth a night, at least…”

Petyr proudly straightened his back. She’d chosen a route, then. Make the idea seem like Harry’s, dangle a carrot before a hungry pig. Harry was being dragged down so many paths of temptation that he’d surely never see light again. “Which target should I pick first, Alayne?” asked Harry, eyes dark with desire. “In your professional opinion.”

Sansa stood, all grace and beauty and objectified lust. Petyr wanted to fuck her there, then. He wouldn’t care if Harry watched. He wouldn’t care if they had an entire audience, so long as those tantalizingly slender legs wrapped around him and he heard her cry out his name, moaning the way she did when he'd listened to her touch herself. Petyr chewed his cheek to remain in the present.

Sansa sat beside Harry, promptly swatting his hand away when he reached out to touch her. “I think you should kill Boros Blount first. He’ll be the easiest. He meets with Walder Frey’s sons every Saturday night to play cards. Boros always drives drunk. Crash his car. It's the perfect cover-up.”

Petyr grinned. Sansa had likely remembered that information from her days with Joffrey. Oh, how wicked she was becoming, how perfect. “Now now, Alayne. Don’t teach him how to do his job. I look forward to seeing his creativity.”

“Sorry, Father,” said Sansa. She stood and smoothed out her dress. “Until next time, Mr. Hardyng. I wish you success.”

“Thank you for your help,” Harry said in smitten reply. “I will be sure to do exactly as you say.”

Petyr helped Sansa back into her coat and sent three prostitutes in to service Harry, a gesture of good faith for a bargain well-struck. _I hope the boy enjoys them,_  Petyr thought.  _They're likely his last._  He led Sansa down the hallway and out the back door, the way they came, and out into the frosty night. A few inches of snow had fallen in their absence. It lined the streets and sidewalks, covering London in a blanket of white.

“Oh my God,” laughed Sansa, whirling to face Petyr. “That was — that was exciting _._  I feel so different, so unlike myself, but it’s not a bad feeling.  _I_  did something to stop the Lannisters. And it snowed!”

“Yes,” said Petyr, admiring her innocence. “You did wonderfully well.” He stepped close, leaning up to kiss her cheek. “Go put on those boots you brought with you, my dear. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

Sansa, looking as though she’d conquered the world, walked off to the car with Mayana by her side. The two were raving about the deal as Sansa changed her shoes to flat winter boots, much warmer and more comfortable. Petyr wondered how victorious this all must feel for her. To finally, after seventeen years, be in charge of her own fate.

Ros came from the club after Sansa and Mayana returned to him. “Can we walk home?” Sansa asked, all sweetness and smiles. “I know it's long. We could call a cab later, but I don't want to go back just yet.”

Petyr didn't know what puzzled him more: Sansa’s desire to remain in the open, a thought that once scared her, or her use of the word  _home._ “I'm sure he'd love that,” said Mayana when Petyr failed to respond. "Gives him a chance to do something for himself once in a while. But I can’t come with. Uh. Shit to do, you know.” He noticed her nudging Ros from the corner of his eye.

“Me too,” Ros piped in. “Party preparations. Things.”

 _Bullshit,_  Petyr thought, but they were lying for him. To give him time alone with Sansa. They hadn't shared a moment since the lesson three days past, and he would taste a lie to say he wasn't eager for her. “I suppose I could,” Petyr offered, as if it was a difficult decision. “Alayne wants to take a walk. It would be rude to refuse her.”

Mayana took Ros by the wrist. “Come on, let these two be gross. We have a party to plan.” Petyr watched the women say goodbye and depart, his hand on Sansa's back until the Bentley faded from view. He turned to his protégé and tried to disguise his curiosity, his odd wonderment to her intentions. “Are you ready?”

“Mhm.” She curled her hair behind her ear like a shy teen on her first date. “I know where I want to go, too.”

“Oh?” Petyr offered his arm, which Sansa took, and began walking with her down the snow-crusted pavement. Christmas lights lined every building with a cozy glow. Last-minute shoppers had long since left, meaning the streetsides were open to them. “I wasn't aware we had a destination.”

“Well, we do now.” Sansa beamed and pointed to a 24-hour café across the road. “I saw it on our way here. It’s not too late, right? We should get hot chocolate!”

Petyr couldn't remember the last time he'd indulged. Sugar was a danger with him, his sweet tooth always getting him in trouble with the doctor, but this was Sansa's request. He couldn’t refuse her. Not when she seemed so happy. “I prefer eggnog, personally, but hot chocolate it is.” It would warm her hands, if nothing else.

The café was a homey place. A bit of a hole-in-the-wall, but Petyr didn’t mind if it was what Sansa wanted. He ordered their drinks, leaning against the counter as she explained how hot chocolate was a Stark family tradition. Theirs was a home of ritual, it seemed. Mismatched customs and simple pleasures. It wouldn’t occur to Petyr until later that she was starting to share those simple pleasures with him. When their drinks were ready and paid for, Petyr held the door open for Sansa and led her back out into the snow, keeping side-by-side on a cold winter’s night.

Petyr could marvel for years over how easy it was to talk to Sansa. She spoke her mind, adding new perspectives that he hadn't considered even on topics as mundane as car sales or the gendering of shampoo. Where it once was awkward to stop at the end of a conversation, those times were behind them, and they jumped from one point to the next like children playing hopscotch. He couldn't place her. Sansa was an irritating and exciting enigma to him, even now, after having sheltered her for months. She never ceased to find ways to surprise him.

“Do you have any Christmas traditions, Petyr?” asked Sansa. “From your parents?”

Petyr tried to find an answer without revealing too much. “I don’t remember,” he said. “I was young when they died. But I remember your mother's traditions, growing up.” The memory of helping Cat braid wreaths and hang ornaments was bittersweet. “She crafted holly circles to hang on the doors of the house, and gave homemade food to the homeless. She was a generous woman. Too generous, some would say.”

“She’d fight you on that. Mum never believed there was such a thing as ‘too generous’.”

“I know.”  _She always made a point of reminding me._  Petyr fought to keep his expression neutral, feeling the discomfort of Sansa trying to open him up. “It was mostly Irish traditions the Tullys held. Like Gaelic.”

 _“Nollaig Shona Duit,”_  said Sansa, taking a sip of her drink. “Happy Christmas.”

“Yes, exactly.” Petyr remembered how difficult it was to pronounce the phrase at first, but it’d grown easier with Cat's generous tutorship. “Every Epiphany, Edmure and I would have to do all the housework while your mother, aunt and grandmother did nothing. The ladies went to all the neighbors’ houses to speak with other women. Some old Irish practice, I think, but it was always bad luck for me. I had to do most of the work.”

“Aw! That doesn’t sound very fair.”

His chuckle wasn’t nearly as cheerful as hers. “One of many injustices, I’m afraid. Your grandfather hated me."

Sansa stopped walking. Petyr turned to her, seeing sadness in her eyes. She’d done it again. Torn him open. “He did?” asked Sansa. “Why?”

Petyr buried his free hand in his pocket. She made him nervous, and Petyr felt juvenile because of it. “Do you know the story of how my father met Hoster Tully? Why I was sent to Ireland in the first place?”

“No, I don’t.” Sansa moved to a nearby bench, brushing off the few inches of snow before sitting down. Petyr did the same. She took a drink of her cocoa, eyeing him intently, and for a moment Petyr could fool himself into believing Sansa truly cared.  _I’ll need a cigarette for this._  He pulled one from his pocket and ignited it, drawing deep, pushing out a smoky sigh that hung in the winter air.

“Your grandfather was in the Irish military,” said Petyr. “Ireland was neutral during World War II and remained so throughout, but Hoster was among the five-thousand Irish soldiers who refused to stay away. They switched uniforms and fought for the British. Hoster met my father when the Americans joined the war. They fought at Normandy together and became friends. Inseparable, so my father said. When the war ended a few years later, my father returned to America after promising Hoster he would write to him, and Hoster promised the same. But it never happened.” Petyr took a drink. “Ireland didn't take kindly to those who'd switched uniforms. Your grandfather was stripped of his rank and placed on a no-hire list. Went into poverty, lost his home, his possessions, everything. All for being a soldier.”

“That's awful,” whispered Sansa.

“It was. My father and Hoster never spoke again, but he still loved the man enough to name him my godfather the day I was born. And when my parents died, I was sent across Europe. I was a living reminder of Hoster Tully's greatest mistake. I’m certain he hated me because of it.”

Sansa fell silent. Petyr looked over to make sure she was paying attention, and frowned when he saw pity in her eyes. He felt her under his skin, crawling, digging deep. “Don't look at me like that,” said Petyr bluntly. “I don't need to be pitied, Sansa.”

“Why not? I can feel sad for you.” Sansa faced him. “You weren't a mistake and I don't care if my granddad thought so. You shouldn’t have been treated differently. I’m sorry you were.”

Petyr didn’t know why he was relieved to hear her apologize. It wasn’t her fault. He sipped the last of his hot chocolate and tossed the empty cup into the bin beside him. "It was a long time ago," said Petyr. “Better left there, in the past.”

“I think you should always work through things that hurt you.” Sansa rested her hand on his arm. Petyr looked down at where she’d placed it, unsure how to respond. “One of the books I've been reading, those recovery books, you know. It talked about past experiences and compared them to cuts on your skin. If you don't treat them, they fester. And even if the infection doesn't kill you, it's an infection all the same. It’s bad for you. The longer you let it sit, the harder it is to cleanse as time goes on, until eventually you're just a bitter, broken person who can't be helped.”

Petyr narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you think I am? A bitter, broken person?”

“I don’t know. Is that what you are?”

He scoffed. “I couldn’t do the things I do if I wasn’t able to function, Sansa.”

“That’s not an answer.” She tightened her hold on his arm. Sansa’s voice had cracked, and he searched her face for sorrow.  _This isn’t about Ireland._  She was hesitant, as if speaking at all was a great risk, but she did so anyway. “Your receipt,” Sansa muttered. “You left the receipt in the back of  _Recovery After Rape._  It had your signature on it.”

Petyr’s tongue dug into his cheek. That was uncrossable territory. “Coincidence,” he said, but Sansa didn’t take the bait.

“Even though cleaning cuts stings terribly and the antiseptic burns, and you need time for the skin to close, it's the only way to heal. To be whole again.” She looked at him with wisdom beyond her years. “I think you have more than a few untended cuts.”

Petyr was frustrated. Angry. How could she talk like this? She, Sansa Stark, who'd been beaten and raped in captivity, humiliated in the public eye when King Joffrey set her aside, destroyed by the death of her family and the innocence she'd known. Petyr was not an empathetic man, but her life was horror compared to what he’d faced. She was still so young.

How could Sansa possibly be stronger than him?

Petyr didn't know the answer. It threw off his instincts, pushing him out of balance, and he drew in so deep from his cigarette that his lungs began to burn. He brushed off his feelings with a laugh and leaned his elbow on the back of the bench, a casual stance that thwarted her suspicion to his withering heart. “Are you my therapist now, Doctor Stark?” he teased. “Believe me, my dear, I am not a weak man. I am also not a broken one. Whatever 'cuts' I have are not yours to bear, nor are they your responsibility. I suggest you let those skeletons lie.”

Sansa frowned. He hadn't intended to upset her, but if it changed the topic, he would do so again. She fumbled with her hands. “I just... I want you to be happy. I want that for all of us, you know?” She rested her drink in her lap and stared off into nothing. “I want the Boltons and Lannisters to pay for what they did, and I’m grateful for your help. But what I want more than anything else is to just be  _happy._  I went so long without happiness. Now that I feel it again, I feel human. I feel like me. You deserve to be happy, too.”

Petyr tensed. Was he a teacher feeling pride in his student's progress? A father watching his daughter grow wings? A player admiring a pretty piece on the board, or a love-hungry man eyeing the perfect girl? Petyr's throat was raw when he tried to swallow. He looked at Sansa in bewilderment, trying to figure out this mess of a girl who'd gone and made a mess of him.

The first snowflake fell. Sansa was distracted, her face lighting up with the happiness she'd spoken of. “Look,” she giggled. “Snow.” Sansa held out her hands to let it fall in her open palms. It melted. Petyr never thought he could relate to a fucking snowflake. Sansa stood as the snowfall grew heavier, so thick that it blurred everything in the distance, and the ice kept falling, falling. Sansa tossed her empty cup into the bin and held out her arms, laughing and skipping along the sidewalk like the child she was.

He watched her. Sansa stuck out her tongue to catch the snow, brushing it out of her eyes and jumping around to hear it crunch beneath her winter boots. She was incredible, even with her dyed hair and fake name. Impossible with her healing cuts. What was a thousand pounds compared to Sansa's smile? What was a million to her joy?

Petyr threw his cigarette in the snow and followed Sansa's trail. She stopped when he approached her. Snow was sprinkled in her hair, on her small shoulders, but he didn’t notice much else. Her lips were his target. He cupped either side of Sansa’s face and abruptly pressed his mouth to hers.

She froze under his touch. Her lips tasted of chocolate and lipstick and something so distinctly  _Sansa._  Petyr held her there for as long as he dared without consent, and when the kiss broke, he only pulled away an inch. Petyr was convinced he'd crossed a line until he felt her hands on his chest, resting. Not afraid. Not defensive. Receptive, wanting, waiting.

When he kissed her again, she met him halfway.

Sansa's lips moved under his, parting and closing in kisses that threatened to swallow him whole. He raised one hand to cradle the back of her neck while the other slid beneath her winter coat, finding home at the small of her back. Petyr should have chastised himself for his lack of control, but he'd waited too long to taste her, waited against wishes and instinct. Sansa's kiss was a weakness he readily stumbled into. She whimpered when he moved her backwards to press against the nearest wall, mouths linked and tangled in a kiss long overdue. He didn't care who saw them. Petyr wouldn't stop for anyone. Just her. Only her.

Sansa gasped when their tongues touched. Petyr was jolted by the familiar sensation, unsated lust racing to his groin. Her mouth tasted just as sweet as her lips, irresistible when fully surrendered to him. Sansa's arms wrapped around him and he felt her fingertips at the nape of his neck, and Petyr groaned, keeping his kiss all-consuming. He let his tongue explain to her what words could not. She made him feel young again. She triggered memories of hope. And, though Petyr knew he must, he wasn't yet willing to push her away.

Sansa's little hums made him ache. Petyr broke from her lips to kiss down her jaw, tasting her skin and smelling the perfume he'd bought for her weeks ago. He left a possessive mark by sucking at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and Sansa  _moaned._  She was perfect. Petyr knew he would lose it if he didn't stop himself from fucking her right there, against the wall. He was suddenly very grateful for the length of his coat. Petyr fought every urge to kiss lower as his mouth travelled up her sweet neck, over her jawline and back to the eager lips he'd already missed so much.

Their pace began to slow. Petyr pulled back despite the needs of his body. Sansa's hands fell from his hair to cup his cheeks, and his grip remained at her waist, hands warm under her coat. “I've never been kissed like that,” she told him breathlessly. “Not ever.”

“Then I was your first.” Petyr felt cocky that such was true. “By the look in your eyes, sweetling, I trust it was not a disappointment.”

Sansa beamed. Her smile, among it all, was what made the first dent in his walls. “I don’t want to go any further,” she said. “Not yet. But… I mean, if you don't mind, I think I like this kissing thing.”

“Do you?”

“Mhm.” Sansa’s fingertips brushed over his throat. She would undoubtedly feel the restlessness of his heart. “Only if that's okay with you,” Sansa clarified. “I don’t — I can't speak for what you want.”

Petyr nearly rolled his eyes. He pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it in her hand, returning his own to her hip. “I think you should call a cab,” he said, “while I  _show_  you what I want.”

Sansa’s eyes darkened. She slowly dialed the number, and Petyr kissed and nibbled at her neck while the phone rang, drinking down her moans like they were sweetwine. “I — _mmm,_  I n-need a cab,” whimpered Sansa into the phone, and Petyr could barely conceal a laugh, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. Sansa managed to give the driver their location in a somewhat normal voice despite Petyr’s diligence. When she hung up, Sansa slipped his phone back in his pocket and giggled as his lips brushed her ear. “We’re in public, you know.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Petyr lifted his head, smirking at her. “Do you?”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed, but her answer was confident. “No.”

He kissed her again with little restraint. Sansa returned every ounce of affection. When the cab arrived, Petyr made sure to pay the driver double for his tolerance as Petyr had no intention of stopping. Not even in the back seat of a taxi, not even with an audience. Sansa was soft and warm under his hands, receptive under his mouth, and while she gently pushed his hand away when he cupped her breast, she didn't reprimand him. Knowing where the line was drawn made it easier. Easier to kiss her, touch her, knowing she was letting him explore within a certain range. It was enough for Petyr. Until she wanted more, it would always be enough.

When they returned home, Petyr gave her a final kiss goodnight and separated before he was tempted to share her bed. He could tell that she wanted him to sleep by her side, but Petyr was nothing if not a man with urges where Sansa Stark was concerned. He would not ruin the gift she’d given. Sansa’s consent was as rewarding as her body, and he would ravish both equally until inevitable disaster took her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * = these links don't go to youtube because i was unable to find these songs there. the first goes to spotify's web app and the other to an unknown site (beyoncé's got crazy good lawyers lol). click at your own risk!  
> AYYYYYY SMOOCHIE SMOOCHIE  
> Finally, the payoff begins. Petyr is such a slut. I love him. And so does he.  
> So my betas flipped over this chapter? Apparently it's the best-written one so far, but I don't see it. Maybe it's just that sweet sweet release of tension. Who knows. All I know is that I jammed to Sanctuary (link above) while writing the kiss scene and may or may not have pictured them in an 80's movie. Don't judge. That's Petyr's era anyway.  
> I feel like I had so much to say about this chapter but now I've just forgotten? It's 1am when I'm writing this and I'm tired.  
> OH. Next chapter. Next chapter is good shit. It's Arya again, but her plotline becomes _very_ relevant, so I hope you guys actually care enough about the plot of this story aside from the sin to be following along. I'm stoked tbh.  
>  See you next week, lovelies! xx  
> (also holy SHIT this is already at 50k words and I'm only on chapter eight??? FUCK. THIS STORY IS GONNA BE HUGE, remember me when i've died)


	9. Berakah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * This chapter goes heavy on the Judaism. Please, _please_ keep in mind that I've written everything about this culture in the story so far with every ounce of consideration I'm capable of. I have books and pages of research and three different Jewish people I'm talking to on Tumblr for advice/references. I know what I'm doing.
> 
> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[rambo; bryson tiller](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5SdTeijDhY)] ◆ [[oblivion; bastille](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF-_H54mydE)]   
> 

  
**21 DECEMBER, 2016**

Life in hiding was almost worse than homelessness. Between Jon’s injury and the persistence of the Night’s Watch, their options were limited. Jon couldn’t leave the motel room at all, Ghost was constantly restless and Arya was sick and tired of living without a tangible plan. The slowest month of her life dragged on. Sleep. Work. Sleep. Work. There wasn’t anything they could do in the search for Sansa, who still hadn’t been found. Not even Jon’s contacts in the Watch could locate her. Arya felt stuck, trapped between two brick walls that squeezed closer together with each passing day. It was becoming harder to breathe.

There was little to be found in the way of happiness, but the siblings made do with what they could. Arya had spent a significant amount of money to purchase Jon a good laptop. He tried to contact Val, sent emails back and forth with Sam using code and gathered all the information he could on their sister’s disappearance. They’d even found an old truck to claim as their own. Arya had taken a job at a bar on the other end of town, bussing tables and washing dishes, nothing spectacular. It gave her access to easy cash that could pay for their room and restock the pounds she’d already blown. And somehow, time went on.

Sleep. Work.

Nothing.

Arya leaned over the table to wipe it down. Business was stagnant at The Brotherhood, which wasn’t unusual for a Tuesday night on the outskirts of Greater Manchester. There were plenty of other pubs to hit if one was looking for a good time. Most people avoided The Brotherhood entirely. Too many scary men.  _They took me in though,_  thought Arya, _they’re not all that bad._  She’d grown accustomed to the little band of outcasts, from a chef they called Lem to Tom the singer, to a drunken priest named Thoros who managed finances. The owner, named Beric, was kind enough despite running a bar known for thugs and criminals. Arya fit in perfectly. But out of all her battered coworkers, Sandor Clegane was her favorite.

“Missed a spot,” said Sandor with a voice as rough as sandpaper. He pointed to a smudge on the table she was cleaning. “Beric won’t like that.”

“I was getting there.” Arya made a face at him before wiping where he’d pointed. “I just started my shift. Gimme a break.”

Sandor grinned, though with his burned face it looked more like a snarl. Arya was used to it.  _He’s gotten better looking since he left the Lannisters, though. I bet Sansa would like to know he’s okay._  Sandor had yet to recognize her as Arya Stark, which wasn’t much of a surprise. It’d been five years since Sansa had stopped seeing Joffrey. The Starks were likely ghosts from a memory to Sandor, and Arya was much younger the last time he’d seen her. But it was nice to know Sandor this way, as a simple barman instead of the brute he’d been forced to be. “How late you workin’, Beth?” he asked. “Wanna make sure someone gives you a lift home. Streets aren’t safe for a girl.”

“I’ll be fine.” He and the others were protective of Arya, but she had seen more horrors than they knew. “Don’t worry about it. If it’s that late, maybe Lem could take me back.”

“Or Thoros, if he’s not too damn drunk.” Sandor leaned against the wall, wiping greasy hands with a wet rag.  _Tom must’ve broken the fryer again._  “Should be a slow night anyway. Always is before Christmas.”

“Yeah.” Arya tried not to frown. “Most people are with their families, I think.”

“Mm.” Sandor cleared his throat. Neither of them were keen on personal conversation, and they didn’t prod, so the topic changed with ease. “You bussin’ tables tonight?”

“Yeah. And serving. You?”

“Workin’ in the back. Jack’s on the bar.” Sandor scoffed. “I hate doing grunt work. Tom needs to stop breaking the fucking fryer.”

“At least there’s food, though,” said Arya. She knew better than to think he wouldn’t get special treatment, being so close to the kitchens. “Every time you’re back there, you practically roll out the door when your shift is up.”

“Money’s good. Food’s better.” Sandor shrugged, but Arya didn’t miss the quirk of his mouth. “See you on break. Maybe there’ll be somethin’ in it for ya.”

“Get the chicken. I love the chicken. And that bread, the seasoned one! With the garlic and the cheese and spinach.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sandor pushed away from the wall and waved before ducking his head to enter the back kitchens.  _He’s too tall,_  thought Arya.  _I hope he hits his head on the ceiling someday._

The night was sluggish as promised. It was too close to Christmas for regular customers, only drunken loners without families or those with recent losses to account for. Arya could relate. A middle-aged man drank away the sorrows of divorce, a truck driver stopped by on a long route to London, a business owner complained about holiday shoppers. Arya collected their stories. It never hurt to arm herself with tales of the outside world, and listening to normal people’s problems helped her deal with her abnormal ones. She swept the floor and eavesdropped, counting the hours until she could be with Jon again.

A gameshow on the telly switched to the nightly news. “I wanna hear this,” said Jack. Arya took the remote from behind the counter and turned up the volume, frowning at the headline.

_“The body of MI5 agent Mandon Moore washed up on Tower Beach earlier this morning. Officials feel certain this was a suicide.”_

“It’s a shame, that.” A man sitting on a stool beside Arya pointed to the news. “Third death this month.”

“No it’s not,” said Arya. “Just the third they want us to care about.”

He chuckled. Arya turned to him. The man was blonde with chiseled cheekbones and a handsome face, and blue-grey eyes that Sansa would swoon over. His German accent was heavy. “What do you make of it?” he asked. “The death.”

Arya looked back to the screen. “Drowning. He probably jumped, happens often enough.”  _But not for an MI5 agent,_  she thought, _and not for someone like Mandon Moore._  The German stranger was right about the body count. First Boros Blount, then Preston Greenfield and now Mandon Moore.  _Hopefully Jon can find a connection._  “I don’t care, though,” said Arya as she continued to sweep. “He should’ve gotten help.”

The man swiveled on his stool, facing her. “You’re pretty upbeat for someone working before Christmas.”

 _What does this guy want with me?_  “I don’t celebrate. I’m Jewish.”

“Are you really?” He seemed interested in that. Most people were turned off by hearing her background, but her admission fueled his curiosity. “How interesting.”

“Why’s it interesting?”

“I’ve met two of you this month. You don’t see many Jews around these days.”

“Yeah,” Arya spat, “maybe because millions of us were killed.”

“Beth!” scolded Jack from behind the bar. “Sorry, sir. She’s new.”

Arya groaned. It wasn’t the first time she’d silenced people with the truth, and it wouldn’t be the last. “What? Not my fault everyone forgets. Enjoy your drink.” She clutched her broom and dustpan, returning to work with spite in every move.

Germanboy didn’t leave. He stayed at the bar, drinking vodka and watching the news, chatting up Jack every so often. He was cocky and sly. Arya didn’t like him. She went about her work, cleaning and serving the few customers that came, but the blonde stranger remained. An hour passed before he moved. He got up from the bar to sit at a table by the window and ordered chips. Arya served him flatly, not saying a word as she shoved the platter toward him. She tried to forget about Germanboy until the person he’d been waiting for entered The Brotherhood, ringing the door as he did.

Into the bar walked Meryn Trant.

Arya panicked. She gripped her broom, fearing Meryn would recognize her, but he didn’t. He glanced over her before taking a seat across from Germanboy. The two shook hands and greeted each other as if they were friends. Arya huffed in anger. Of course someone who thought Jews were rare would be friends with Meryn Trant, but what were they doing here in the first place?

Jack placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You know how to pour a drink, kid?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t get into trouble.” Arya watched him round the corner and push open the kitchen door, and she was left alone with the two customers.

 _Quiet as a shadow._  Arya continued to sweep as though nothing was wrong. She kept her ears open, blending into the background to overhear the conversation.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Trant,” said Germanboy. “I hope you found this place alright. Bit junky, but I’m fond of it.”

“I see why.” Arya wasn’t looking, but she could feel Meryn’s eyes on her before he spoke again. “You come here often for business, then?”

“All the time.”

 _Liar,_  thought Arya,  _I’ve never even seen you before._  But why was he lying? Arya’s work with the floor was done. Instead of leaving to do other things, she walked behind the bar and began cleaning cups. Anything to stay close enough to hear.

“So,” said Meryn. “I hear you’ve got connections.”

“As long as there’s money to be had.” The foreigner popped a chip in his mouth. “Product isn’t easy to come by.”

“Can’t imagine it is.” Arya heard Meryn cough. She hated being so close to him, in the same room with the man who’d beaten her sister on Joffrey’s orders and  _liked it._  She kept cleaning cups and hid her scowl.

Meryn and the stranger ordered drinks. Arya served them and was called back for more. And more. It occurred to her after five orders that Germanboy had barely taken a sip and Meryn had done all the drinking. He was beginning to sway, movements clumsy, yet Arya said nothing. She kept silent and observed, wiping down the table behind them.

“How many girls?” asked Meryn in slurred speech. “I want to know what I’m buying. Walder Frey’s word is good, but I’ve got my own tastes.”

“Three girls for sale. All virgins, all young.”

Arya nearly fell over. _Girls? Are you kidding me?_ She knew better than to react and blow her cover, but her knuckles turned white with how hard she gripped the rag.

“Are they pretty?”

“Very.”

“How pretty?”

 _“Very.”_  Germanboy sighed in longing. “You’re lucky to be able to buy your women. There was this _Jüde_  I had my eye on the other day. I’d have paid for her. Fantastic beauty. Tall, striking blue eyes, perfect body.”

Arya knew a tall Jewish girl with striking blue eyes.  _But it can’t be her. Can it?_

“A Jew? Fuck, been a long time since I seen one a’those.” Meryn took a drink. “Most of ‘em know to stay far away from me.”

Germanboy laughed. “Because of the Starks? It’s no secret your queen hated them.”

“Yeah, she did. Hated ‘em less after poor Ned’s accident. He and that girl of his went right up an’ over. That calmed Cersei for a bit.”

“I imagine so.”

Arya froze. No one had known she was in the car with her father. Not even the news. She was simply missing, the Lannisters had covered up her disappearance and said the incidents were never linked…

Her fist clenched. There was only one way Meryn could have known she was in that car: if he’d seen her in it.

“Give me a minute to make a phone call,” said Germanboy. He stood. “I want to make sure the ones you want are ready for sale. Then we can haggle price.”

Meryn gave a drunken nod. The stranger left out the front door. Arya and Meryn Trant were inside The Brotherhood, alone.

Three questions ran through her head. One:  _can I do it?_  Two:  _will he talk?_  Three:  _can I escape?_  There would be time to run. She could help Jon get out of town, and Father deserved justice, didn’t he? She remembered where she’d stuffed Needle in the side of her boot.  _God should forgive me for this,_  Arya thought,  _but even if He doesn’t, I’m doing it anyway._

“Girl,” called Meryn. “Pour me more booze. I’m thirsty.”

Arya did as he asked. She flipped over the “CLOSED” sign and twisted the blinds shut. Meryn was too drunk to notice. She stepped in front of him, watched him, and stayed there.

Something in her eyes attracted him. Meryn looked her up and down as he’d been doing all night. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Fifteen.”

“Are you, now…” Arya hated the way he looked at her, tongue gliding over his lower lip. “What’s a fifteen-year-old girl doin’ in a bar?”

“Working. My dad owns this place. I help sometimes.” She curled her blue hair behind her ears, pretending to be shy, the way he liked it. “Hey, um… are you good with electrical stuff? There’s something wrong with the breaker out back and I want to fix it before Dad gets here.” She met his eyes.  _Calm as still water._

Meryn sneered, falling for her bait. “The girl wants a man to help her fix something.” He seemed so pleased that Arya wanted to vomit.  _Quick as a snake._  She reached for his wrist and pulled a surprised Meryn Trant from his seat. Arya led him outside to the back of The Brotherhood. The night was so cold that it pained her lungs, but she ignored it, continuing until they were out of sight.

Meryn shoved her against the wall. Arya squirmed. She’d led him too far, but that was what it would take. His grip was strong; he’d done this before. Arya regained her bearings and pressed hard against him before he leaned in to kiss her. “You haven’t even asked my name,” she said. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Not really,” snarled Meryn. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Wait.” She pushed against him again, and by some miracle he paused. “I want you to know my name. It’s a good one.”

“Fine,” spat Meryn, palming over the bulge in his jeans to grant pleasure while he waited. “Tell me your fucking name.”

“It’s Arya,” she replied. “Arya Stark.”

Meryn’s eyes grew wide before Needle stabbed them out.

She was on him before he could scream. Arya plunged Needle into his face and neck as many times as she could. Each stab was penance for a death. Father. Mum. Robb. Talisa. Little Ned. Bran. Rickon. Repeat. She didn’t know how many times she’d gone through the cycle before someone pulled her off of the dead man, and she flailed and screamed, cursing at whoever restrained her. Germanboy stood at the end of the alley. His face was red with wrath.

“He was mine!” shouted the German. “He was mine to kill, why did you take my kill?  _Scheisse, scheisse._ ” He ran his fingers through his hair. Before she could call out to him, he turned and bolted from sight.

Arya wrenched free from the arms that held her. Blood coated her hands and shirt, dripping to the concrete, freezing to the ground. Arya’s chest heaved. Adrenaline and pride flowed through her like a river, but the fear came shortly after.  _I killed him. Evidence, investigations, my face will be all over the news…_

“Run,” growled Sandor. He stood behind her, snatching her by the shoulder to spin her around. “Run, girl!” He gave Arya a hard shove. She nearly fell over.

“W-what?”

“Meryn Trant deserved to die, but you’re not takin’ the fall for it.” Sandor spat on the ground. “I didn’t help the little bird to see her sister go to prison. Go on, get the fuck out of here.”

He knew. Did all of them know? Was that why they’d hired her without ID, why they insisted on keeping her safe? Beric always spoke highly of her father. _And Sandor, he made sure I got home alright, just like Sansa when she’d visit Joffrey…_

“Sandor—”

“What does ‘run’ mean to you?” he snapped. “Get going before the police show up. You don’t want the Lannisters to find you.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Sandor pulled the knife from Meryn’s chest and handed it back to Arya. His grey eyes met hers in a stare so intense, she felt burned. “Go, girl. Find your sister. My days are done, but yours aren’t.”

He pushed her away. Arya shoved Needle in her boot again and ran, just as he’d told her. Just as she had to.

No matter how livid Jon would be, how hurt when he’d tell her to pack up and get in the car, Arya would not regret her triumph.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**24 DECEMBER, 2016**

Jon and Arya had barely spoken since their return to the road, heading nowhere fast with no destination in sight. They walked. They drove. They slept where they could, and cold nights grew colder without beds to keep them warm.

“Stop being stupid,” Arya told Jon one morning, when she handed him cooked ramen and he refused it. “You need to eat.”

“You’re right. Not eating is pretty stupid, I should avoid doing stupid things.” His stare was filled with judgment. Jon snatched the ramen from her and shivered under his blanket, keeping close to the barrel fire for warmth. They’d spent the night under a bridge. Back to square one.

“Why are you so mad?” Arya spat. “Meryn killed Father. He’s the reason I went missing, he was a killer!”

“And now you’re a killer too. Congratulations.”

“I’m not a little girl, Jon. Stop treating me like one. I’d do it again and again and again if I had the chance. Meryn Trant—”

“Meryn Trant didn’t have Sansa!” Jon snapped. “He didn’t know where she was, he didn’t even care about her! What are you doin’, Arya? You gonna fight the Lannisters all by yourself?”

“No, I—”

“You what? You think I’m gonna join you?” Jon didn’t break eyes with Arya. She stayed quiet. “All I’ve done since I left for trainin’ was fight. I fought when I swore my oath, I fought in Afghanistan, I fought for  _six months_  on the run to make it back here, to you and Sansa! And you think I’m gonna fight more? Fight a war we can’t even win?”

Arya cringed. When Jon spoke again, his voice was burdened and sad. “Sansa’s gone.”

“No.” Arya shook her head wildly. “She’s not.”

“Arya—”

“Stop talking like you’re hopeless!”

“It’s not hopeless, it’s practical! It’s been two months of nothing, how are we supposed to find her if Tywin Lannister can’t?” Jon’s voice cracked. Arya could feel his despair, and she would've hugged him if she weren’t so bitter. “We need to leave the country. We need to go home.”

Arya turned away from him. She settled in her burrito of a blanket and held herself, indignant. “There is no home,” she muttered. “Not while the Lannisters are alive.”

An hour of silence went by until Arya couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m taking Ghost for a walk.”

“Arya, that’s not—”

“I don’t care.” She didn’t need Jon’s permission, and she wouldn’t ask for it. Arya patted her leg. Ghost trotted over to her.  _He’s mad at Jon too,_  she thought.  _Good. At least someone’s with me._  

Arya didn’t know how long she walked. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets and kept mostly to the pavement, Ghost never leaving her side. Broughton was a welcomed change compared to Greater Manchester. They’d been lucky to find a Jewish community. Arya stuck out with her blue hair, but she spoke enough Hebrew and Yiddish to fit in and was left relatively alone. She knew her people wouldn’t let anything happen to her, even if her instincts were to fight and flee.  _We protect our own, Father always said. I hope that’s true._

Broughton Park was nice enough. It was a shopping center, nothing like the parks Arya and Bran had played in as children, but the people-watching was still enjoyable. She walked to a nearby McDonald’s and bought dinner, feeding Ghost some chips and sitting cross-legged on a metal bench. She eyed everyone who passed. Some Jews, some not. Most were indistinguishable.

Arya didn’t care who saw her anymore.  _Let the Lannisters come,_  she thought bitterly,  _at least I could go down with a fight._  Was she all out of blessings, then? Arya toyed with her Star necklace, feeling lower than she ever had before. Jon was done, but that didn’t mean she had to be. _Sansa’s alive._  It was a prayer if she’d ever said one.  _Please, please, don’t take her too._

 _“Shabbat Shalom,”_  said a voice. “Is this seat taken?”

Arya snapped out of her reverie. A man had approached her, elderly in years with a peaceful smile. Arya was wary until she noticed his kippah. “No,” she said. “It’s not taken.”

“Oh, good. May I sit?”

“Sure.” Arya took her McDonald’s bag and scooted over enough to give the old man a seat. “It’s a fine evening for a walk,” he said, “even if I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Arya dug into her bag and handed him a chip. “Want one?”

“Oh, no thank you. I’m afraid my heart isn’t in the condition for fast food.” He chuckled. “Today is the first day of Hanukkah.  _B’ezrat Hashem,_  I will have a good meal tonight.”

Arya smiled.  _“Chag sameach.”_  He looked at her, and she looked at him. They shared understanding. “Will your family make something?”

“No,” said the man. “I’m afraid I don’t have family nearby. My wife died of cancer many years ago, and my children all immigrated to America. It’s expensive to fly across the pond, you know. They’ll be here again for Purim. But not before then, I expect.”

“Oh.” Arya bit into her burger, savoring the taste before she swallowed. “Most of my family's dead. Mum an’ Father, my brothers, and probably my sister too. All I have is my brother.” It felt good to talk. The only person she could talk to unfiltered was Jon, and she didn’t want to talk to him right now. “Instead of helping Mum with the Christmas tree and Father say prayers at the menorah, I’m sitting here, on a bench in Broughton eating shitty McDonald’s with my dog.”

To her surprise, the stranger laughed. “I suppose it is good that God blessed you with the money for food, then? Think on your blessings, my dear. Few though they may be, it is never easy being a Jew, and we are no strangers to hardship. You will overcome.”

There was comfort in his words, and Arya grinned despite herself. She finished her burger and gave the rest of her chips to Ghost, who ate them eagerly. “Do you know anyone who could take in two people for the holiday? My brother and I have been sleeping in a car for the past few nights, and I know a bed and a hot meal would cheer us up. We’re kinda not well-off right now.”

The man frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. You should have somewhere to go. Hanukkah is a simple holiday, but not insignificant.”

“Yeah.” Arya picked at her chipped nails. “Oh well.” There wasn’t much else to say. Ghost sniffed at the stranger’s pantleg, and he reached down to pet the dog on the head.

“I have a spare bedroom,” he said quietly. “Your brother can sleep on the sofa downstairs, if you'll forgive an old man his traditions. I can’t turn two young people away, not when community is so important.”

Arya blinked. Her instinct wasn’t to believe him, but if she couldn’t trust her own people, who could she trust? “You’d do that? Take us in?”

“Of course. For as long as you need, until you can stand on your own feet again.” The old man pulled a piece of paper and a pen from the bag he’d been carrying and wrote down his address. “I should get home and start cooking, but this is where I live. As long as you and your brother respect my home, I would be honored to open my doors for you.”

Arya couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so nice to her. Yoren, maybe? She missed how it felt to be valued. Arya took the slip of paper, a little blessing in disguise. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there with my brother before sunset, I promise.”

“I look forward to it.” The man stood up, a pleasant smile on his face that reminded Arya of a grandfather. “What is your name, by the way? I certainly wouldn’t like to greet you as ‘stranger’ when you arrive.”

Arya, teary, said the first word that came to mind. “Mercy.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mercy.” He shook her hand. “The children I teach call me Mr. Luwin. Feel free to do the same.” Luwin said his goodbyes and left her sitting there, and Arya, for the first time in months, felt the warmth of human kindness. She’d barely done anything, and there was a roof over her head again. A bed to sleep in. A place to stay until whatever happened, happened.

Surely God wouldn’t bless a murderer like this. No, the death she’d given Him was justice, and she was determined to serve more.

Jon was laying in the truck bed when Arya returned to him. He sat upright at the sound of Ghost barking, and while he didn’t smile when his sister approached, Arya didn’t try to make him. “Get up,” she said. “I found a place for us to stay.”

Jon rubbed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I met a man at the park. He’s going to take us in for Hanukkah.”

Jon gave a heavy sigh. He tried to speak, but Arya talked over him. “Shut up.  _I_  found us a place to stay and  _I_  worked for the money we have and  _I’m_  the one who got you help. I even bought you a friggin' laptop!” Arya huffed. “I’m going to stay with the nice man. His name is Luwin and he lives nearby. I’m taking Ghost with me. You can come or you can stay here, but Sansa needs me and I’m not giving up on her. I’m not going to stop fighting because if I do, what did Mum and Father and our family die for? What did  _your_  mother die for?” Arya grabbed her bag and heaved it over her shoulder. “But it’s fine. You can bury your head in the snow for all I care. I’m leaving. Bye, Jon.”

She turned and left. Ghost padded after her, wagging his tail as if it was all for fun. Perhaps it was. Arya knew Jon wouldn’t let her go. Seconds later, she heard him call out and offer to drive. Victory. The siblings piled into the truck and Arya gave Jon the address to Luwin’s place, saying nothing more.

The house they arrived at was smaller than she expected, two stories high and painted brown. Arya took her things and called Ghost to her side, ignoring Jon entirely as she marched up to the stranger’s door. She knocked. Mr. Luwin greeted them both with smiles and ushered them inside.

“Apologies for how humble it is,” said Luwin, gesturing to a simple living room with a sofa and two chairs. The décor was modest, but Arya liked it. “My late wife was the decorator.”

“It’s okay. We’re just grateful to have somewhere.” Jon shook Luwin’s hand and introduced himself as ‘Jon Snow’.  _No one’s gonna fall for that,_  Arya thought, but she didn’t blow his cover and sat down on the sofa. Jon sat beside her, and Luwin took a seat in the chair opposite them. His expression was somber.

“I thought perhaps, before we pray, I might get straight to the point.” Luwin folded his hands in front of him. “I know who you are.”

Arya tensed. A part of her wasn’t surprised, but that same part remained unafraid.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn you in.” Luwin smiled in reassurance. “Your father was, and still is, greatly respected in this community. We all looked up to him and mourned his passing. Your family was a beacon to us.”

 _They were my beacon, too._  Arya looked at Jon, and the two arrived at a mutual conclusion; this could be a safe place, for now. “Thank you,” Jon said as he faced Mr. Luwin. “You’re too kind. It’s been… hard for us. To say the least.”

“I’m sure it has been. I hope I can make you as comfortable as possible, though. Everyone deserves a nice holiday.” Mr. Luwin stood and walked into his kitchen. He returned with a dish of latkes and challah and two bowls, one with applesauce, the other with sour cream. “I have both. Just in case.”

Arya beamed.  _Latkes, just like Mum's._  “Thanks.” 

“You are most welcome.”

Slowly, Arya’s joy soured. The last time she’d celebrated Hanukkah, she was home. They all were. Rickon had beaten everyone at dreidel and hoarded every chocolate coin he’d won. Father had his silver menorah, shaped like a tree branch. They’d all sung the prayer. Even Mum. Afterward, they’d laughed and told stories over hot cocoa, discussing what they wanted for Christmas while Talisa passed around her ultrasound pictures. Arya’s eyes began to sting. She was still angry with Jon, and perhaps he was with her, but she reached for his hand and held it tight. Jon leaned over and kissed her forehead. A gesture of forgiveness. His eyes were as pained as hers.

The siblings accompanied Mr. Luwin to the mantle. He lit the first candle, and the three of them sang the Baruch. Arya struggled through the final line. By the time it was done, she sniffled her way out of the room, not bothering to wish Mr. Luwin goodnight or indulge in the food that reminded her of the past. She climbed the stairs and walked into the open guest room, closing the door behind her.

There weren’t any tears left. Arya was depleted of sorrow and rage had taken its place. She wanted to hit something, anything. She wanted to travel back in time. Arya climbed on the bed of another strange place, a place that wasn’t home, and hugged her knees.

She didn’t know how long she sat there before Jon came to her. He entered the room with a cup of water and a plate, Ghost trotting in behind him. The canine climbed on the bed and licked Arya’s face. She couldn’t help but smile.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” said Jon, sitting beside her. “Drink this. I brought some latkes for you, too.”

“Thanks,” she said, setting the water on the nightstand. She took the plate of latkes and smiled at the sour cream on the side.  _He remembered._

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said. About Sansa, and fightin’.”

Arya bit her lip. She had to find Sansa, she knew it in her heart, and she needed Jon to join her.

“You were right. If we don’t find Sansa and get rid of the people who are lookin’ for us, everyone we loved all died in vain. I don’t think I could live with myself if we left the country and Sansa was still out there.” Arya watched Jon’s eyes go distant. He didn’t say anything else, just sat there carried away in his own mind. She pulled him back when she nudged him with her foot.

“What are you trying to say?” asked Arya. “You said you didn’t want to fight anymore. That Sansa was probably dead.”

“I was wrong.” Jon looked at her, eyes filled with a fire she hadn’t seen in years. “We can’t be separated again. We go home happy with Sansa, or not at all. And I know just where to start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * = Before I get into the goods of this chapter, I wanna take a sec and talk about the Holocaust line mentioned by Arya earlier. I was advised by one of my Jewish sources on Tumblr that avoiding mentions of anti-Semitism and the Holocaust is an unrealistic way to portray Judaism. These are very real things that Jews, especially European Jews, have to face. In the words of my main source (that wishes to remain anonymous because they aren't a part of the fandom), "ignoring the Holocaust and anti-Semitism is just as bad as pretending they never existed/don't exist." And I think the "six million of us" line from Arya is a very IC reaction to Harry's ignorant statement. So, there you have it. Don't kill me.  
> I'd also like to thank @equipoise for being my Jewish sensitivity-reader! She helped me clear up a few things and gave me a shiny stamp of approval. Bless u. This was a hard chapter to write for many reasons, mainly because it put all my research to the test, but I think I did well. Even though I'm sure I'll get dragged. Whatever. I did my best.  
> That being said, **if you are a Jewish reader and see a problem in this chapter, please bring it to my attention!** I want to correct any errors. You can message me [here](http://kitharington.tumblr.com/holla) to talk about it.  
>  ANYWAY, WOW. WHAT A CHAPTER. What a beginning to the drama ahead. The next chapter is gOOD SIN and then just, wow, we're really starting to get into the thick of it. Juuuust leaving the introductory phase and getting into the meat of this tale. Thanks for sticking with me so far, even though I'm a plot writer over a smut writer and this story's probably garbage overall. You rock. (All the later smut is dedicated to u.)  
> See you on Saturday ;) chapter ten is h u g e so prepare for a long read!


	10. White Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[moonlight serenade; glenn miller](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_X8sz_wgrSc)] ◆ [[don't; bryson tiller](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmhLaqStDgc)] ◆ [[white christmas; bing crosby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9ibhWgMlso)]   
> 

  
**24 DECEMBER, 2016**

Hanukkah would never be the same. Sansa stood before the fireplace in the library, lighting the menorah by herself. Alone.  _Does Jon still celebrate?_  she wondered.  _Wherever he is, is he lighting the shamash? Is he thinking of me?_  Jon Stark was a lost boy, though, as she was a lost girl. She sang the Baruch. She prayed. And all the while, she missed what was.

A slow applause came from behind her when Sansa finished the blessing. Petyr leaned against the nearest bookshelf with a grin on his face. _Has he been listening the whole time?_ Sansa wondered. He was dressed in a cable knit turtleneck and a pair of dark jeans that fit him perfectly, looking every bit a wealthy host ready to greet his guests. Sansa smiled when he came to her. His eyes observed before he said anything, drinking her in from head to toe, cocking his head to see her from a different angle. The spotlight would have embarrassed her before, but now it only made her blush.

“Do you like it?” Sansa asked. She looked down to the Dior dress he’d bought for her months ago, and the ballet flats that covered her feet. “You haven’t seen me wear this yet. I thought tonight would be a good occasion.”

“A perfect one,” he agreed, “but not as perfect as you.” Petyr cupped her cheek. He eyed her red lips and curled hair, never frowning. “You look stunning, my dear. Your beauty puts the dress to shame.”

Sansa rested her hands on his chest, smiling wider when he took her by the waist. Petyr’s touch was freeing. It filled her with peace. “Thank you. You look handsome too, I like the pullover.”

“I’m glad.”

Sansa’s breath hitched when he kissed her neck and slipped his fingers through her hair. He loved her hair; Sansa had learned that in the two weeks they’d been exploring one another. Petyr turned to the menorah with its two lit candles, neutrally curious. “If it is the first night of Hanukkah, why are there two candles? Forgive me. I don’t know much about it.”

“Do I finally get to teach you something?” Sansa moved to the mantle with a cheeky grin. Petyr followed, slipping his arms around her from behind to pull her close against him. His constant need for contact never bothered her. It made her feel cherished, and she knew it made Petyr feel cherished, too. “This is a  _shamash,_ " said Sansa, pointing to the center candle. "It’s what we use to light the other eight candles. And this one is for the actual first day of Hanukkah. It can be strange for outsiders.”

“No, that makes sense.” Petyr adjusted the menorah so it sat in the center of the mantle. “If Cat grew accustomed to your practices, so can I.”

_The fact that you even try is enough._  Sansa turned in his arms, hoping he could see how much she appreciated him for comforting her. Petyr responded by kissing her gently. Repeatedly. They’d discussed it at length, how a simple kiss could calm whatever storms raged in Sansa’s mind. His lips parted the clouds and cleared her foggy head. Kissing was safety, security, warmth. Something she’d only shared with him.

Petyr eventually pulled away. “The others will be arriving soon,” he said. “You should join me in greeting them. You are the lady of the house now, after all.”

“Lady?” Sansa laughed. “I’m not a lady. I’m just a girl.”

“Regardless, you are mine.” He kissed her cheek. “Everyone will want to meet you. You can’t hide from them, or the world, forever.”

“I know.” Sansa was anxious to meet Petyr’s associates. There weren’t many, Ros had assured her of that, but there were enough to make Sansa worry.

“There is nothing to be nervous about. It’s a small group this year, anyway.” Petyr offered his arm to her. “Ros is setting up the food. She might want some help.”

Sansa glanced back to the menorah. She longed for it, longed for home, but those days had vanished. Sansa linked arms with Petyr and forced a smile. “Okay.”

The two left the library, and the menorah, behind. Sansa held tight to Petyr, the sound of Christmas music growing louder with every step down the hall. She could feel him tense on her arm. Petyr didn’t enjoy these parties, so Olyvar had said, but he dealt with them for the sake of keeping his circle loyal. Sansa admired him for it.

“Oh, Sansa!” chimed Ros when the pair entered the living room. “You look adorable. I love the red lips.”

“Thank you,” said Sansa. Mayana had showed her a wonderful lipstick brand that didn’t smudge or rub off, even in the middle of snogging sessions. Sansa had made sure to wear some tonight. “You look beautiful, too. I love the dress.”

“Thank you, dear. We have to dress up, even if the others don’t.”

Mayana entered the room, balancing a platter of cookies on each hand. She wore a sweater with a picture of Jesus in a party hat, holding a sign that read “Birthday boy!” Olyvar wore the tackiest Christmas pullover Sansa had ever seen. She laughed at the both of them. “I’m overdressed.”

“They’re just making fools of themselves.” Petyr removed his arm from hers. “Help them set up, sweetling. I’m going to play a few lines.”

“Okay.” Sansa smiled when he kissed her forehead, no longer in a paternal way, but far more sensual and romantic. He left her in the living room. Sansa coyly curled her hair until she turned to face the others, all of whom were staring at her with suggestive grins. “What!” laughed Sansa. “It was just a kiss.”

“Mmmhm.” Mayana waggled her eyebrows. “Y’all disgusting. I should move out.”

“I’m coming with you.” Olyvar placed a pitcher of apple cider next to a kettle and laid out cups. “I don’t want to overhear what happens next.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Now _you’re_  being disgusting.”

“They’re relentless,” said Ros. “Ignore them. We all know I’m winning the bet, anyway. New Year’s.”

“No way!” Mayana put her hands on her hips. “It’s gonna be tonight. Look at her. Pete’s prob'ly already jackin’.”

“I think you’re both ridiculous,” chimed Olyvar, popping an M&M in his mouth. “He’ll wait until Valentine’s Day. It’s the perfect setting, and an appropriate amount of time by a young lady’s standards.”

Sansa's cheeks turned red as her lips. “Are you betting on — on when Petyr and I — when we…”

Mayana’s snort told Sansa all she needed to know. Sansa huffed and stole one of the lemon cakes from the table to hide her embarrassment. She skipped into the kitchens to gather what had yet to be set out, mouth full of pastry, as Petyr began to play Christmas tunes on the piano.

The living room had transformed again by the time final preparations were made. A long table lining the outer wall was covered in holiday dishes and pastries. Small frosted cakes, chocolates and caramels and marshmallows with cream, French wine and candied apples and numerous holiday drinks. Fruits and glazed doughnuts, brownies, even cinnamon challah and latkes. Sansa wanted to taste everything. Ros had to stop her from stealing another lemon cake, going so far as to physically move the platter out of the room until the party began. Sansa chased after her until the doorbell rang.

“I bet it’s Tyrion,” said Mayana. “He’s always here first. Come on, pretty girl, let’s say hi!” Sansa was dragged from the living room before she could argue. She didn’t have time to contemplate her fear before Mayana swung the front door wide open.

Sansa remembered Tyrion Lannister. He was always kind to her despite Joffrey and his ways, and he looked no different than he had back then, aside from the new beard. He’d become Chancellor of the Exchequer since Prime Minister Targaryen took office.  _He looks so happy._ Sansa shook hands with him after Mayana gave him a hug. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Lannister.”

“And you, Miss Stark. It is wonderful to see you smiling.” Tyrion squeezed her hand. “I am so sorry for your losses.”

The words caught her off-guard. It had been ages since she was granted someone’s sympathy, since she cared to have it, but Tyrion’s words seemed so genuine that she nearly forgot to reply. “Oh. Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Tyrion motioned to the woman at his side, a beaming beauty with dark hair and a platter of Turkish delight, her belly swollen with pregnancy. _She must only be weeks from delivery._  “This is my wife, Shae.”

“Hello, Sansa,” said Shae with her heavy accent. “Tyrion’s told me all about you. You have your mother’s eyes, I saw in the pictures.”

“Thank you.” Shae gave Sansa a hug before she could be told otherwise, but Sansa didn’t truly mind. Mayana ushered the couple to the living room where the party was to be held. When Tyrion left to greet Petyr in the piano room, Sansa stayed with Shae to discuss the coming baby. _Petyr's right,_  she thought after a while, _there are worse things than this._

A half-hour passed before Lothor Brune arrived with his wife, Mya, and the children. Lothor was huge, almost as big as Sandor Clegane, and Mya was a little thing with short black hair and a roguish attitude. They were friendly enough, even though Mya did all the talking. Lothor mostly made indirect grunts and rallied the triplets while his wife was busy. Hearing the children run around reminded Sansa of her younger siblings, all three of them. The more time she spent watching little Alyssa play, the more she realized how deep her ache for family still was.

Petyr spent most of the party lurking in the background, but Sansa was not so anti-social. She soaked up the opportunity to be in trustworthy company; it could be her last for a long while. She talked with Shae about immigration to Germany and her transition to London life. Lothor wasn’t much of a talker, but Sansa managed to make him smile when praising him for his devotion to the Secret Service. Mya was all jokes and stories. She raved about the hardships of her veterinary clinic. After a time, it clicked with Sansa that Mya was Gendry Waters’ older half-sister, the illegitimate daughter of King Robert that the media had swept under the rug.  _If only Arya were here,_  Sansa thought,  _I bet she’d love to know how Gendry’s doing._  Sansa made a point to ask. Mya told her that Gendry was recently in charge of the kennels in her clinic and let all the dogs out at once, but some of them were in heat and now half their owners were expecting puppies. Sansa laughed at the story, knowing Arya would laugh too, but she made no mention of her sister to Mya. This was a time for the present, not the past. A time for joy over sorrow.

“Miss Stark,” said Tyrion Lannister when the party was half-over. Shae was locked in an intense conversation with Petyr in German and Ros was bouncing little Alyssa on her knee. Where the others were, Sansa didn’t know, but Tyrion seemed insistent on speaking with her. “Could I ask you something, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course.” Sansa followed him to a space by the window, far enough away to avoid eavesdroppers. It made her suspicious. “What would you like to talk about?”

Tyrion sipped at his wine. She waited for him to mull over his words, concern burning bright in his Lannister eyes. “How are you being treated here, Sansa? Is Littlefinger kind to you?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s very kind.”

“If that ever changes, there are… other places I could take you. To keep you safe.”

Sansa shifted in discomfort. “Like where?”

“I have an associate who can watch over you. Someone I trust. Littlefinger is not known for his trustworthiness, Sansa, I’m sure you’ve learned that.”

Sansa couldn’t argue. But Petyr had her trust, which was all that mattered. “You’re here at his party,” she countered.

“Pleasantries. He is good company, but I don’t fool myself into believing we’re friends. I don’t even know his name.” Tyrion glanced around the room to make sure Petyr was nowhere near. “I have a friend, Sansa. One who would take care of you in the name of your father. He had a great respect for Ned Stark, many people did.”

“And Littlefinger didn’t?”

“No. He didn't.” Tyrion dug into his pocket and handed her a business card. “The decision is yours, of course. My friend would ask nothing of you, as I’m sure Littlefinger has. We both know he is not the kind of man to take something that won’t benefit him later on.”

“He’s not going to ‘take’ me, Mr. Lannister. Not ever.” Sansa dropped his card in the nearest rubbish bin, unashamed, but not cruel. “I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But I'm happy here. Littlefinger has never been inconsiderate or harmful to me. This is the safest place I've been since my family was killed and I don't want to leave.” Sansa found she truly believed those words, despite intending a lie. “If you’re so worried, you should turn your attention to Ramsay Bolton. He is a bigger threat to me than Littlefinger has ever been, almost as big as your father was to mine. Tell your friend that. See what he says.”

And Sansa left him.

Sansa didn’t speak with Tyrion for the rest of the night, but she was still a polite hostess. She spent the remainder of the party with Shae and Mya and Olyvar, telling stories while playing with the children. Alyssa started calling her “Aunt Sansa” before long, sitting in her lap with a toothy beam.  _I bet Robb’s son would have been as sweet as this._

Tyrion and Shae left an hour later. Mya let out a long sigh when the door closed behind them, the party officially through. “Phew,” she said, “do you know how hard it is to refer to you as ‘Littlefinger’ all the time? You could’ve come up with something shorter.”

Petyr grinned. “I’m sorry my alias inconveniences you.”

“Petyr’s been called weirder shit before,” said Lothor, “Littlefinger doesn’t even come close. You can start cleanin’, babe. I’m gonna put the kids to bed.”

“Okay.” Mya and Lothor shared a kiss. Petyr smirked at Sansa from across the room before disappearing down the hall with Mayana and the others. “Come on, Sansa,” said Mya. “Let’s get this place cleaned up. Let those four have their fun, they work hard enough.”

Sansa helped Mya clean the dishes in the kitchen and put away the spare food, talking and singing to Christmas songs as they worked. By the time they were done, another hour had passed and Mya was yawning when Lothor came to bring her to bed. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Sansa.” Mya waved. “My kids will probably wake you up early. Get some sleep, okay?”

“I’ll try.” Sansa smiled as Mya and Lothor left the room. She stood in the kitchen alone, taking a moment to think on her blessings.

Sansa heard music coming from the hall. Mayana’s laughter bled through the cracked door of Petyr’s office, followed by Ros and Olyvar spitting drunken jokes at each other. The music sounded hollow, distant and unclear.  _A record player? Swing music,_  Sansa thought, but she didn’t know the artist or the song. She considered peeking inside, but they wouldn’t spite her for entering unannounced.

The fireplace in Petyr’s office was lit, crackling behind Ros and Olyvar as Mayana tried to teach them how to swing. All three of them were drunk. Mayana cackled at Ros’s attempt to move her feet like the dancers do, and Olyvar had taken to practicing the twirl on his own. Petyr leaned back in the chair at his desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His cheeks were flushed. Behind him was the old phonograph from which the record played.

“What’s going on in here?” asked Sansa. “A dance party?”

“Sansa!” called Mayana. She attempted to crawl over the back of the couch to reach her. “Oh my god, please tell me you know how to swing. These two are hopeless.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Agh. Come on, it’s not hard! Pete made me a master by the time I was twenty. Here, come here, I’ll show you.” Mayana tried to stand. She wobbled and caught herself on the back of the sofa before falling over. Olyvar burst into laughter.

“You’re not in a position to teach anyone anything,” said Petyr from his desk. “What happened to ‘I’m not going to drink that much’?”

“Who knoooows.” Mayana snorted. “I’m having fun. Don’t kinkshame me.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” said Ros. “He’s the biggest freak we know.”

Petyr spread his hands. “I have a reputation to maintain. You should get in bed before you pass out, Mayana. I’m not cleaning up any messes you might make.”

“I know, I know.” She sniffled. “C’mon, y’all. Let’s give Pete some jackin’ time. Muse A is here.”

Sansa shook her head at Mayana’s joke, made in ill-taste, but humorous all the same. Ros and Olyvar said their goodnights and helped Mayana from the office. When the door closed, Petyr and Sansa were alone.

“Benny Goodman,” he said. Petyr stood from his chair, snuffing out his cigarette in an ashtray and setting the whiskey down. He faced the record player.  _He’s so handsome,_  thought Sansa,  _even in the way he moves._  “My parents loved swing music. They went out dancing every Saturday that I can remember.” She heard him scoff. “They’d dance in the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, anywhere there was space. This was one of their favorite songs.”

“They must have been lively people.”

“No, not when they were apart. But together? Lively’s a good word.” Petyr lifted the needle, ending the song, and removed the record to exchange it for another. The song that began was much slower than the last, paced for romance versus jive, and Petyr turned to Sansa with mischief. “I’ve always preferred the softer things.”

Sansa didn’t move away when he came to her, taking her hands. She let him place one on his shoulder, the other still held while his free hand rested at the base of her spine. Sansa smiled as he began to sway her to the beat, feeling giddy for a thousand reasons combined. “Softer?” she asked. “That’s surprising, coming from someone like you.”

“Everyone needs a hobby. Soft fabrics, soft jazz, soft women — these are all interests of mine.” His eyes lingered at the slope of her neck before returning to her face.  _I know that look,_  she thought, and it excited her. “Did you enjoy the party?”

“Mhm.” Sansa was grateful for a distraction from his stare. “I’m glad I got to see Tyrion, and I absolutely loved Shae. Mya has the funniest stories, too. Her kids are adorable. I can’t see why you don’t like them.”

“I didn’t grow up with siblings,” said Petyr. “I’m not particularly well-versed in children. The triplets are much better behaved this year than last year, though. I don’t know what Mya threatened them with.”

Sansa laughed. “Children don’t have to be threatened to be well-behaved.”

“These ones do.” His grin quickly faded. “I heard them call you ‘Aunt Sansa’.”

“I know, aren’t they sweet?”

“Does it bother you?” Petyr cleared his throat, almost nervously. “They called you ‘Aunt Sansa’ because I’m ‘Uncle Petyr’. That typically implies marriage.”

_Oh._  The connection was obvious in hindsight, but Sansa had been so honored that she hadn’t noticed it. Their dance came to a slow halt. She searched Petyr’s grey-green eyes for purpose, but all she found was confusion. “That’s not… that’s not such a bad thing, is it?” asked Sansa. “It’s harmless to let them think that.”

“I suppose.”

There was greed in him. Sansa felt it in his touch when he tightened his hold. She could read Petyr better than anyone, she’d learned that, and what she saw in him dug at the resistance she’d built over time, at the base of her self-defense until there was nothing. She was left submissive.

“Moonlight Serenade,” said Petyr in a low voice.

“What?”

“The song. If you were wondering.”

He kissed her hard. Sansa opened to him, her arms around his neck. She knew the movements of his mouth, his practiced restraint, but the boundaries slipped away and Sansa lost her footing. She moved backwards with him until the back of her thighs hit a table. Petyr gripped her hips and guided her down on the surface, settling between her legs as he kissed her neck. Sansa felt a flush of warmth, the core of her begging for what she wasn’t yet ready to receive. His hand sliding up her thigh was electric. Nerve-wracking. “Petyr,” she whimpered. “Petyr, I don’t…”

“I know.” He nibbled at her neck, making her whine. “I know.” Petyr’s hands moved up her back and pulled her against him. Sansa let her eyes flutter closed, unable to do anything but melt under his touch and his voice and his heat. “I won’t hurt you, sweetling. But I crave you. I crave touching you, hearing you, seeing you.” He kissed her ear. “Let me please you, Sansa.”

_Yes,_  her body replied.  _Do it, do whatever you want._  But hesitation remained. The thought of sex was still frightening; her body was broken territory, wasn’t it? Sansa chewed her lip, looking at him when he pulled away. His eyes were half-open and infected with desire.

“I won’t undress,” he assured. “I’ll even keep my shoes on, if that’s what you want. No part of me will enter you. There are other ways to please a woman.” Petyr's knuckles grazed her throat. “Let me show you.”

The fire between them was kindled by time and togetherness, solidifying his promise to her.  _He won’t hurt me._ Petyr held her face and she felt confident, safe in her needs. Sansa nodded. “Okay.”

He kissed her again. She sighed into his open mouth and clung to him as he wrapped his arms tight around her waist. Sansa could feel him, hard between her thighs, under his jeans. She wanted to touch him where he ached. He wouldn’t hurt her. He would like it, Sansa was certain, he’d waited long enough for her to be comfortable.  _I can be comfortable, right? I can give him what he wants…_

Petyr pulled away before she could act. He took her hands delicately and helped her off the table, eyes never leaving her. “Not here,” he said. “My room.” He led her down the hall and up the stairs, and she followed him, keeping hold of his hand.

Petyr opened his door and closed it behind her. His room was dark, barely lit by the Christmas lights outside his window, and she saw only shadows and dull shapes of furniture. Petyr moved away. Anxiety slithered in, replacing him at her side. Sansa wrung her hands and tried to keep her breath steady in the darkness.  _He won’t hurt me. He promised._  “Petyr,” she whispered. “Petyr, where are you? Could we turn on a —”

A lamp clicked on. Petyr stood by his nightstand, one hand on the switch, worried. The light was dim as though he’d lit a candle, but it was enough to soothe her. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just — the darkness —”

“I know.” Petyr came to her and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “I haven’t forgotten what upsets you.”

Sansa sighed in relief. They’d talked about what brought panic for her, in a room with a bed, with a man. She was grateful for Petyr’s patience. Even if his reasons for being kind were to gain sexual gratification from her, she knew it was better than no kindness at all.

“Do you trust me?” Petyr asked.

“Yes.” Her heart raced with the thrill. The man she’d chosen would touch her by her own will and consent and  _God,_  she was ready. She melted when Petyr pulled her closer, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, mint and whiskey still on his tongue. He toyed with the zipper of her dress before pulling it down, down, sliding his hands along her back and dragging his nails lightly on her skin. A shudder took her. The dress came over Sansa’s shoulders until Petyr pushed it to the floor, and she was exposed. “Gently,” he whispered. “I am going to savor you.”

Sansa hummed when Petyr caressed her scalp, her Irish hair, guiding her head to the side to plant a kiss where neck met shoulder. Her eyes fluttered closed. Lips and teeth cast a spell from his mouth to her skin, pumping through her blood until she was properly bewitched. He didn’t hesitate to finger the back of her bra. “May I?” he asked in her ear. She nodded. Petyr unclasped the hooks and pulled the lace from her body, and to her own surprise, Sansa didn’t feel the need to hide. Willing exposure was something she’d never done, but Petyr wouldn’t hurt her. He’d please her. He promised.

Sansa felt his ragged breath down her neck, hot and trembling at the sight of her nakedness. She wondered if he liked what he saw. Tentative and exploring, he glided his fingertips along her curves, over her stomach, her sides, and Sansa shivered so hard that she gasped. Petyr held her breasts in his hands. He rolled his thumbs over her nipples and Sansa whimpered, curling her fingers into his jumper from how much he made her ache. Her head fell forward until Petyr caught it with his own and he kissed her tenderly. “You are a gift, Sansa. Truly exquisite.” He touched her peaks again. “Perfect.”

“I’m not perfect,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m just me.”

“That is why you are perfect.” He took her hand. Sansa let him lead her to the bed, feeling her confidence settle.

“On your back,” said Petyr. His command reared something dark inside her. Sansa obeyed, laying on his blankets and trying to keep calm. Petyr climbed on top of her and claimed her mouth in a heated kiss. He settled between her legs, a position she knew they could make love in were it not for the clothing that separated them, and she felt his hardness grind against her. The pressure made her moan. Sansa smiled at the taste of his kiss, the familiarity that chased her fears away. His mouth moved down her neck to the valley of her chest. Her breath shook when he took her nipple in his mouth and traced it with his tongue. Sansa closed her eyes, humming behind closed lips at the pleasure that shocked her. Petyr guided her legs further apart as he caressed her body, but Sansa knew where she wanted him, where she craved him. He was driving her mad on purpose, touching her everywhere but the one place she needed him most. His fingertips traced the inside of her thigh and she squirmed.  _What are you doing?_  she almost asked, until his kiss came lower and lower, below her rib cage and her abdomen, and lower still. Sansa trembled in anticipation. “I’ve never — Petyr, I don’t, I’ve never —”

“I know,” he growled. Petyr pulled the lace underwear from her hips and tossed them aside, exposing her fully to him. Sansa felt strangely open, defenseless under his gaze, weak to his dominance.  _What does he see?_  she thought, but all Sansa recognized in his stare was hunger. Petyr kept his eyes between her legs. She was nervous to be vulnerable, but he wasn’t a threat. A blush crept over her face. “So beautiful,” he muttered in a tone she didn’t recognize. “Divine.”

Sansa laughter was defense; Petyr’s compliments to the place she'd been ruined made her want to cry. “What about it is beautiful?”

“What about it isn’t?” He kissed her thigh. “You will feel it soon. Don’t hold back your sounds, sweetling, I want to hear you.”

She wasn’t given time to respond. Sansa moaned to the ceiling when he traced her sopping slit with his finger, not pushing inside, but teasing enough to make her wish he’d never promised restraint. Sansa looked down at him, his eyes lascivious in a gaze that grew darker by the second. “Do you trust me?”

Her answer was quick. “Yes.”

Petyr slid one hand up her stomach. Sansa laced her fingers with his. He spread her thighs further apart, and came down to taste her.

Sansa gasped when she felt his tongue. A jolt of pleasure shot through her body and she jerked backwards, suddenly embarrassed. _“_ Ah! Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t expect —”

“It’s alright,” soothed Petyr, voice deep and calming. “Relax, sweetling. Relax.” He reached for her again, his face between her legs, that wicked smile ever-present. “Don’t pull away unless you’re frightened. It defeats the purpose.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” she chuckled. “I’m new to this.”

“Not for long.”

His mouth touched her again. Petyr’s tongue was warm and soft against her, making her sex throb harder as if he wasn’t touching her at all. Every move made her muscles quake. Sansa didn’t recognize the sounds the came from her throat, somewhere between whimper and hum, but it wasn’t in displeasure. She moaned and closed her eyes, head falling back to the mattress as he began to work her in ways she didn’t think were possible. It was so much sweeter than touching herself at night, thinking of him when he was undoubtedly thinking of her, too. Petyr was fire and she was an evergreen, and he would lick her until she ignited.

Sansa writhed beneath him when his pace sped. Already she was building, higher and higher toward a bliss she’d never reached with anyone else. She gripped his hand tighter while her other snaked into his hair. Sansa had abandoned trying to keep quiet long ago and whined to the ceiling, light sounds that made him groan against her flesh. Her pitch raised with each press and flick of his tongue and her body felt like it had unlocked, opened fully to let him devour her inside out. Sansa clenched her eyes shut. “Petyr,” she mewled. “Don’t stop, _please_ …”

Her begging pushed him further. Petyr sucked and feverishly lapped at her core until she teetered on the edge of oblivion, breathing hard and clutching his dark hair, every muscle tense. Like a boulder off a cliff, she fell. Sansa cried out as her body spasmed, clinging tightly to anything she could reach just to stay on earth. She moaned his name, back arching, and Petyr guided her through orgasm. It was heaven, a blank state of mind, nothing but euphoria that set all parts of her to a frenzy. Sansa quivered with pleasure until she came to rest again, panting and smiling and completely overjoyed. She covered her face with her hands and giggled. “Oh my god.” There were no words she could find, none that fit. She moved her hands away to look at him.

Petyr was staring. He sat back on his knees, frowning, watching.

Her smile fell. Petyr’s eyes were everywhere, scanning her entirety as if searching for a clue. A clue to what? Petyr seemed confused, impassioned but saddened to be so. She pushed herself upright. Sansa reached out and touched his cheek, and his eyes lifted to hers. Petyr didn’t speak. He kissed the inside of her wrist and gave her a look she didn’t quite understand, something between longing and self-deprecation, and he pulled away before she could question him. Petyr pulled some pajamas from his dresser and disappeared into the connecting bathroom.

The shower began to run. Sansa sat there, still breathless and tingly from whatever he’d given her, but something felt wrong. Different. She ran her fingers through her hair. A few minutes passed before she thought to move, and Sansa wondered if he expected her to be gone by the time he came out of the shower.  _I don’t want to be gone, though. I want to stay. He wouldn’t mind, would he?_  She wasn’t sure anymore.

Sansa picked up her underwear from the floor and slipped it on. The Dior dress was too expensive to sleep in, but she didn’t want to cross the hallway to her room half-naked, either. She walked over to his laundry basket and picked a gray t-shirt from the top of the pile. She brought it to her nose. It didn’t smell bad. On the contrary, it smelled like Petyr, which made her feel safe. Sansa pulled on Petyr’s shirt and returned to his bed, settling on top of the covers. His mattress felt like a cloud. She leaned back on the headboard with a little smile, feeling relaxed and peaceful, as if he’d taken off an edge that’d been poised against her throat.  _I hope he’s not angry with me,_  Sansa thought.  _I didn’t even touch him…_

She couldn’t go there. Sansa took the TV remote from his nightstand and turned on the telly for distraction. It was past one in the morning, too late for any notable news, but while scrolling through the channels she found something worthwhile.  _White Christmas. Father’s favorite._  She turned it on, burying her feet under Petyr’s blankets and settling in to watch.  _I hope the children didn’t hear the noises I made._

Petyr came from the bathroom. His hair was wet, amusingly flat, and Sansa smiled to see him in plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt. He looked so simple, so domestic that it was almost humorous. She’d seen him charm thousands from the pockets of bankers and negotiate lives like they were product on a shelf, yet there he was, Petyr Baelish, just out of the shower and ready for bed. He paused when he looked at her. Sansa kept her smile. She hadn’t forgotten the sadness in him.

“This is a sight I could get used to,” he said, smirking as he leaned against the bed frame. “You. In my bed.”

“I prefer you and me together in the bed,” Sansa countered. “I don’t like watching movies alone.”

Petyr tossed his towel in the hamper and gestured for her to scoot over. He pulled back the blankets and settled in at her side, eyeing the TV. “ _White Christmas?_ ”

“Mhm.” Sansa wasn’t going to let Petyr be distant, so she snuggled close to him. He smelled of soap and steam. “My father loved this movie.”

“Your father?” Petyr wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Sansa moved closer. “That seems… odd.”

“Not really. He loved Christmas. The decorations, the togetherness, the spirit of giving.” She toyed with her necklace. “He loved it as much as the next person, even though he celebrated for different reasons.”

“I see.” Petyr reached for his phone on the nightstand. He scrolled through a few pages while Sansa kept her attention on the film. An Army division from World War II was sending off their beloved general to a musical number, thanking him for his leadership. The camera focused on the general’s teary eyes as his soldiers declared their love. It reminded Sansa of Petyr’s father. A man she’d never met and barely heard of, but she thought of him all the same.

“Did your dad have a uniform like that?” Sansa asked, pointing to the screen.

“Yes, he did. Kept it in a closet somewhere.” Petyr seemed passive, dodging the topic of his family as usual, but there was something else buried in the way he spoke. Sansa could feel it. Petyr locked his phone and placed it on the wireless charger. “You should sleep, sweetling. It’s already late and Lothor’s brats will have us up before sunrise.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not much of a sleeper.” He kissed her temple and turned off the lamp, letting the light of the movie be their only guide. Petyr settled on his back for Sansa to snuggle beside him, her head on his chest, arms curled between them. She sighed as his fingers stroked her hair. He kissed the top of her head. It was so tempting to fall asleep just then, without discovering what Petyr was upset about, but she cared for him too much to let it slide.

“Petyr?” asked Sansa in a quiet voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not angry, are you?” Sansa looked up to him. She sat up on her knees so she could see him better, nervously twirling her hair. “You looked sad earlier, after we… after  _you,_ ” she corrected. “I’m sorry I didn’t return the favor. I just don’t know if I’m ready. I shouldn’t be scared of a body part, but I’m—”

“Sansa.” Petyr gently pulled her down to him, kissing her. Sansa’s tension slipped away. “Pleasing you pleases me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, I’m not angry with you. I have no reason to be.”

“But you’re not happy, either. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’m not sure you can see much of anything in this darkness.” Sansa could hear his grin.

“No, stop. I’m not joking.” Sansa placed her hand beside him to stay upright, the other caressing his cheek with tenderness. Petyr stopped moving entirely. “I think we’re past the point of hiding things from each other, aren’t we?”

A flicker of frustration crossed his face. She noticed it when the movie came to a snow scene, filling the room with white light. Sansa brushed her fingertips along his cheek, over his jaw, reveling in how sweet it was to feel his vulnerability. It was for her, after all. Petyr moved her hair behind her ear and held it between his fingers when he spoke. “If I’d gone to your mother’s Christmas parties, been around her at all, I could have seen what was coming. I could have killed your enemies before they laid a hand on you, and tonight I could have had you fully. Instead, you are afraid.”

“That’s not your fault.” Sansa frowned, toying with the silver hair at his temple. “You didn’t make the Lannisters do what they did. You didn’t tell the Boltons to hurt me.”

“But I could have prevented it, if I’d been a part of your lives.” His smile was somber. “One of many regrets.”

Sansa felt his burdens. Petyr seemed like a man who didn’t have any regrets at all, not from the crimes he’d committed or the lives he’d taken, but Sansa didn’t inquire. She leaned down and kissed him sweetly, slowly. “I don’t hold it against you. You shouldn’t either.”

“I don’t. I’m merely stating an inconvenience.”

_Oh, you liar._  Sansa knew better, but it was pointless to argue. She cuddled beside him again and let him hold her, his breath in her hair, pulling her close, and in his arms Sansa drifted to a peaceful sleep.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**25 DECEMBER, 2016**

“Sansa,” said a soft voice. “Sansa, darling, wake up.”

Sansa groaned and rolled over in bed, hoping to wrap her arms around Petyr, but instead she found empty space. She opened her eyes. Ros was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in sweatpants and a loose top, hair in a messy bun. She carried a mug of coffee and her eyes were warm and maternal. “Happy Christmas.”

Sansa pushed herself up and looked around the room. Petyr was nowhere to be found. “Happy Christmas,” she said to Ros, smiling despite herself. “Where’s Petyr?”

“Downstairs. He thought you’d want to sleep in. Olyvar and Mya are making french toast from the leftover challah. Can you smell it?” Ros inhaled deeply, her eyes more joyful than Sansa had ever seen them. “I love the holiday. Best time of year.”

“Yeah.” Sansa felt odd, sitting in Petyr’s room without Petyr beside her. She almost got out of bed before remembering she didn’t have pants on.

“Are you alright, love?” asked Ros. “Petyr came downstairs this morning looking like he’d killed someone. That’s to say, he looked  _very_ happy.”

“I’m okay,” Sansa said with a smile, appreciating that Ros even bothered to ask. “We didn’t go all the way. But he was good to me.”  _I wish I could have been good to him._  

“I’m not surprised. Petyr is mostly gentle to those he actually cares about, though you’ll never hear him say it.” Ros patted Sansa’s leg over the blankets. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I brought some clothes over from your room, they’re sitting on Petyr’s desk. Come down when you’re ready. Breakfast should be done soon.”

“Thank you, Ros. Really.” Sansa would never get used to how much these people cared for her. “I shouldn’t be long. I don’t want to keep the children waiting to open gifts, that used to drive me mad when I was little.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Lothor never lets them start until he’s had breakfast and at least two cups of coffee. They’re trained.” Ros winked. She stood from the bed, sipping her espresso. “I’ll save a seat for you,” she said, and left the room.

_Christmas,_  thought Sansa. It was hard to believe she’d made it this far.  _If there’s anything I want this year, it’s to stay safe and happy. For as long as I can._

Sansa walked to Petyr’s desk near the fireplace. Ros had picked out a pair of baggy flannel pajamas and Robb’s Oxford sweatshirt for her to wear. Sansa quickly dressed.  _Petyr keeps a tidy work space,_  she observed, eyeing the neat stacks and folders that he kept everything of necessity filed in. She wondered how many national secrets his storage contained, how much blackmail and international scandal. It wouldn’t do to poke and prod, though. Not on Christmas Day. 

A book caught Sansa’s eye. It sat beneath a short stack of paperwork, tucked away at the back of his desk.  _Recovery After Rape: Helping Your Partner Reclaim Their Sexuality._  Sansa reached for it. The cover was worn with use and sticky notes poked out from between the pages. Others were dog-eared for reference. Sansa opened the book and scanned over different topics and texts that Petyr had highlighted for emphasis, and her eyes began to sting with tears. There were passages about boundaries, patience, cooperation, communication and understanding, all of which were surrounded by handwritten notes and sentences Petyr had underlined. The corner of “Trust Exercises and Relearning Touch” was folded down, with the word “TRACHEA” written next to it.  _The organs lesson,_  Sansa thought.  _So he_  did  _plan that._  Sansa knew Petyr’s methods were unorthodox, concerning to those who didn’t know him, but he’d taken great care and concern for her comfort. Who else had done that for her?

One handwritten line stood out.

_   
_

_She is more than her scars._

_Oh, Petyr._  She wiped a stray tear from her cheek and took a pen from his top drawer, writing a message in the space below.

  


_And you are more than yours._

She capped the pen and placed it beside the book, knowing he would see it. Sansa freshened herself up in the bathroom, feeling secure knowing her happiness had value, and left Petyr’s bedroom to join the others.

“Good morning!” called Mya when Sansa entered the kitchen. “French toast is all served up. Take a plate and find somewhere to sit. We’ll start presents after.”

“Thank you, Mya,” Sansa poured herself a glass of milk. “I’m sorry I slept in. Am I the last one up?”

“No. Mayana’s still dead to the world, but I’m not surprised.” Mya flipped over sizzling bacon in the skillet. “Petyr said she drank tequila last night. That shit always knocks her out. He’s checking on her.”

Sansa took her plate from the counter, looking around the otherwise empty kitchen. “Where is everyone else?”

“Out on the deck,” said Mya. “Bring another coat before you go out there, though. We had a hell of a storm last night.”

Sansa peeked out the back windows. The gardens were blanketed in fresh snow that had fallen overnight. Tree branches were lined with crystals of snowfall and the air was crisp, pure. Sansa smiled to herself. A prayer had been answered.  _Thank you, Father._

Sansa ate her breakfast with Lothor and Olyvar, swapping holiday stories over challah and hot chocolate. She built snowmen with the children, braided Alyssa’s hair and had a snowball fight with Olyvar, who made fun of Mayana’s hangover the moment she came outside. Sansa sent a snowball Ros’s way. Ros yelped as it slid down the back of her robe, nearly spilling her coffee on the ground, and Sansa laughed so hard her sides began to hurt. The children thought Aunt Sansa had done a commendable thing. They made snowballs and hurled them at their parents, Ros and the others, which earned them a scolding from Uncle Petyr when he came from the kitchens. He wasn’t cruel with them, but he was stern, earning apologies from four little children with their heads hung in shame. They didn’t stay solemn for long, though. When Ros announced that it was time for presents, they pushed passed Petyr and paraded into the living room by the tree, eagerly calling everyone else inside so they could start. Sansa made to follow them until Petyr took her by the wrist, kissing her when it was just the two of them on the deck. _“Nollaig Shona Duit,”_  he said.

The passing of presents was its own disaster. Ros and Olyvar tried to pace things one present at a time, but the children were too demanding and Mayana too grumpy, so everyone opened their gifts at the same time. The room was soon smothered in wrapping paper. Petyr cringed. Ros and Olyvar were exhausted by the end of it, but overall, the gifts brought many smiles. The children received brand new iPads from their Uncle Petyr, and while Mya didn’t look too pleased, she knew there was merit in keeping four young kids occupied. Mayana gave Petyr a coffee mug that read “You’re the Worst” with an assortment of flavored condoms inside. Sansa blushed when he eyed her suggestively. Olyvar and Ros bought each other matching shirts and Mayana got a box of Frango’s from Petyr, some sort of tradition between the two. Petyr liked Sansa’s gift. A simple silver pin in the shape of a mockingbird. She didn’t think he would be so appreciative, but he enjoyed the present so much that he kissed her full on the mouth after opening it. The children yelled in disgust. “I’ll wear it with pride,” Petyr told her. “Thank you.”

Sansa, of course, was showered in gifts. Clothes, perfume, makeup, shoes, books, even an acoustic guitar like Robb’s. By the time the presents had all been unwrapped, the living room was a jungle of papers and plastic, but everyone was happy. Sansa sat content in Petyr’s lap with her gifts all around her, looking to the menorah on the mantle where someone had moved it from the library. She knew the best gift of all was one they’d given her long ago: a place to belong.

“Sansa,” said Petyr, rubbing her shin with his hand. “Come with me for a moment.” Guiding her off his lap, Petyr stood and offered his hand to her. Sansa took it and followed his careful navigation through the labyrinth of children and crumpled paper. He led her to the piano room, out of sight from the others, and only then did Sansa notice his other hand still held behind his back. “My present to you, Sansa.” Petyr lifted his palm and offered her a small box, sleek and black without any lettering.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

Trying to hide her giddiness, Sansa took the box and cracked it open. Inside was a pair of princess cut diamond earrings in white gold, glittering and new and  _huge._  Sansa gasped. “P-Petyr, these are — this —”

“Diamonds, yes. Two karats. I know you worry about price, but don’t. I like to spoil you.” He curled her hair behind both of her ears and reached for the box, grinning. “May I?”

Sansa nodded. Petyr took the earrings and unclasped them, and she moved her head to the side to allow him to put them in place. She giggled when his lips ghosted her neck, his mustache tickling her, every move one of passion.  _Trust exercises._  When he was done, he eyed her with admiration. “How do they look?” she asked.

“Beautiful, but you outshine them.” He lowered his hand to her hip. “I was hoping you would wear them to the gala.”

Sansa raised her brow. “What gala?”

“Myrcella’s. She is hosting a formal event on the New Year, and I’ve been invited.”

Sansa blinked. “ _Queen_  Myrcella? Joffrey’s sister…”

“She is nothing like Joffrey, I assure you. I know you haven’t seen her since you were younger, but she is a very sweet girl, every inch a benevolent monarch. You will like her.”

Sansa bit her lip. “Queen Cersei and Tywin Lannister will be there. The Boltons will be there, _Ramsay_  will be there.” The thought of facing him was terrifying. She’d begun to panic when Petyr cradled her neck in his warm hands, and she lifted her eyes to his, inches apart.

“You have become a strong woman under my guidance, Sansa. Beautiful. Confident. Intelligent and sharp-tongued. There is nothing the Lannisters can do to reverse that, not now. As for Ramsay, I will be by your side.” Petyr kissed her forehead. Sansa felt uncertain, standing there with the inevitability of her fears around the corner, but she found the will to be strong. “Are you ready to come back to the public eye, sweetling? To finally begin what we set out to do?”

Sansa knew what he meant.  _I want their corporation to burn,_ he’d said before. _We kill them._  She stood taller.

“I’m ready,” Sansa Stark replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so glad this chapter wasn't in petyr's pov because it literally would have been "and then he died." (sidenote: my beta killed me omg, she was like: "Sansa smiled when he kissed her forehead, no longer in a paternal way, but far more sensual and romantic." do u mean "he kissed her like a dad only hotter" #callhimdaddy)  
> Reference for the [Baruch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fb-tkAet5A), which Sansa sings at the beginning and Arya/Jon sang last chapter!  
> A visual ref for Sansa this chapter, to further bury Petyr in his grave: [x](http://www.theplace2.ru/archive/sophie_turner_actress/img/1\(59\).jpg)  
> This is almost 9k words and I can't believe myself. This took me so long and ugh I'm sick of looking at it, so HERE. HAVE IT. I hope it's good like I planned! :) Feedback on this chapter in particular would be great!  
> I really hate doing this, but since I want this fic to constantly be great quality, I'm going to take a little break. **There will be no update next Saturday.** I just need to take a day or two and play some video games or something, I have no free time lately and I'd love to take a breather. Consider chapters 1-10 "part one" of Bloodguilt! Now we're onto the good stuff. **Chapter 11 will go up on Saturday, October 22nd.** I'll keep my weekly updates from then on, unless I need another break, but I think it's important for me to take some time off. 65k+ words in two months is a lot! You can also go back and reread before the plot starts to get heavy. To catch anything you might have missed; I've been planting seeds for a while so I hope you've been paying attention! (And if you ask nicely, _maybe_ I'll make a gifset next Saturday in replacement of an update. Hmm.)  
>  See you in two weeks, my lovelies! Things are really going to kick off. Your support and enthusiasm has meant so _fucking_ much to me. This story is going to be a huge personal accomplishment and every time I hear how much you love it, I feel all warm and fuzzy and worthy. So thank you, truly. I love you all. And remember you can always reach out to me on [tumblr](http://llittlefinger.tumblr.com). xoxo


	11. Slaughterhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[power; kanye west](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sp1mVNOB5tg)] ◆ [[addicted to you; avicii](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4w-3n1yTiw)]   
> 

  
**29 DECEMBER, 2016**

The mockingbird pin had become Littlefinger’s badge of honor. It rested over his black heart on a suit of the same color, where a politician might boast the flag of their country. But Littlefinger wasn’t loyal to any nation. Only his own. Only himself.

He looked down to the silver symbol with pride. Sansa knew him well enough to have purchased the gift on her own. It made Petyr smile. The little mockingbird was one of his favorite possessions, though he could never tell Sansa that, even if she already knew. He’d nearly snogged her when he opened the box. “Every villain needs a symbol,” he’d told her, “and now you’ve given me mine.”

It was perfect. A little bird pinned upon his breast, masking the lies he spoke with song.

Petyr’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, crossing one leg over the other as he read the sender’s name. Sansa. He had a minute to reply to a text or two. Cersei wouldn’t send for him just yet, and the extravagance of Buckingham Palace had lost its charm. He’d much rather talk to his girl. Petyr tapped the screen and read her message.

_Red velvet cake tonight? For Olyvar’s birthday._

Petyr smirked. His response was immediate.  _I’d much rather have_  your  _red velvet._

Sansa sent him a sarcastic emoji.

_I could tell him and the others to leave the house. Go to a bar or something, give us the place to ourselves._

_And what if I want to go with them?_

_That’s illegal. You’re underage._

_That didn’t stop you from taking me to The Mockingbird._

Petyr laughed. One of the guards looked at him strangely, but didn’t inquire.  _Red velvet sounds fair. As long as I get my extra serving when the others leave._

_You’re gross._

_For you, I will be everything._

“Littlefinger!” called a sing-song voice. Petyr recognized Myrcella before he saw her, golden locks and Lannister eyes identifying her as queen. Petyr stood and bowed at the waist, slipping his phone into his pocket. He didn’t have to fake smiles with Myrcella. She was a sweet girl, and had not earned his contempt.

“Your Majesty,” said Petyr. “You look beautiful, as always.” He politely kissed her cheek. Petyr had known to stay close to the Baratheon children long before he ever rose to power, and it had paid off considerably. Myrcella thought of him as a friend. She’d even invited him to her royal wedding, in a seat beside Prince Renly. “Did you receive my message?”

“About the gala?” said Myrcella with excitement. “I did! I’m so happy you can join us. It’s going to be fun. And I can’t wait to meet your girlfriend, she sounds wonderful.”

“She is.” Petyr offered his arm like the gentleman he was, and she took it. “Have you been sent to lead me to your mother, Your Majesty? Not to be rude, but my appointment was with her. You and I will have plenty of time to catch up at your gala, I assure you.”

“I know. I look forward to it, but when I heard you were here, I had to come say hello.” Myrcella walked with Petyr to the lift, her bodyguards trailing behind. Petyr knew two of them as Arys Oakheart and Areo Hotah. Two men loyal to their queen, and the Spanish boy she’d married. “You’re always such a fashionable person, Littlefinger. Which color should I wear to the party? Red? Or green?”

“Neither,” said Petyr. “Wear gold. Christmas is over, dress for the new year. Be a star to your people.” He stepped into the lift with her. He returned his arm to his side when they began to ascend. “Gold will match your hair. A bit of sparkle and a train to make you stand out. I’m sure there are many of the crown jewels that will match.”

“Ooh,” cooed the queen, “I hadn’t thought about gold. That would be perfect. What are you going to wear?”

“Black. It fits me best. I have a suit prepared, Your Majesty, don’t worry.” He grinned at the memory of trying it on for Sansa’s approval. She’d loved the sight of him in it. She’d loved it even more when he had her on her back.

“Has your  _ladyfriend_  picked a dress yet?” teased Myrcella.

“She has,” said Petyr, “but she won’t let me see it. Wants to wait for the surprise.”

“Aw. She sounds like a smart woman.”

“Very. And beautiful. You will enjoy her company.” The lift came to a stop. Petyr motioned for Myrcella to leave first, but she shook her head. “I’m going back down,” she told him. “I only wanted to escort you to Mother. I have an appointment too. Being queen is busy work.”

Petyr understood. He was making a queen of his own, after all. He gave fond farewells and parted ways with young Myrcella Baratheon, following the hall to the Queen Mother’s private office. Petyr couldn’t care less to ogle the art around him. He was too focused, too masked behind Littlefinger to appreciate anything other than his craft.

The office doors were opened for him. Littlefinger entered briskly, finding Cersei Lannister seated at a conference table. She was not alone. To her left sat Roose Bolton and his son. Ramsay.

“Mr. Bolton,” said Littlefinger, smirking at his twist of good fortune. “I didn’t think to find you here with the Queen Mother.”

“I hadn’t thought to be here. Unfortunately, Tywin is occupied and we have urgent business to discuss.”

Cersei smiled. She took great satisfaction in doing her father’s work for him, convinced it made her more valuable in his eyes. The former queen consort did not stand to greet Littlefinger like she normally did.  _Stressed, are we?_  “I’m glad you could make it, Littlefinger. Forgive the short notice.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Littlefinger glanced in father and son’s direction, pausing a moment on Ramsay’s pale eyes. “Smart of you to invite the Boltons, Your Grace. Saves me a trip.”

“Does it?” Cersei turned her head to the side, examining him in that sly way of hers. “Why?”

“If you think you could hide the Lannister-Bolton relationship from me, you’re mistaken. Fortunately for you, your best interest is also mine.” Littlefinger took a seat at the table. Cersei straightened her back, asserting herself as the leader, but it was Roose Bolton who spoke first.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my son,” said Roose. “Ramsay, this is Littlefinger. One of the most dangerous men in the United Kingdom.”

“I would argue the world, but unfortunately there are those worse than me.” Littlefinger shook hands with a willing Ramsay. Petyr wondered what this Bolton boy would do if he knew Sansa had been in his care this whole time. If he learned that Petyr’d had her just hours ago, tasting what he’d won with his head between her thighs. “I heard about the loss of your fianceé,” said Littlefinger. “Such a tragedy.”

“Yes. I do miss her terribly.” Ramsay leaned back in his chair, hands in his lap. “People searched for ages. Too bad she’s dead.”

“We don’t know that,” snapped Cersei. “For your own good, Mr. Bolton, I suggest you keep your son quiet. He’s the reason Sansa fled in the first place.”

“You don’t treat a prized lamb with cruelty,” Littlefinger agreed. “Otherwise you lose her.”

“And what do you know about lambs?” asked Ramsay. His expression was dark. Wild, testing. “Have you ever skinned one before?”

“Enough." Roose eyed his son with scorn. “I brought you here to teach you, not to let you run your mouth.”

Petyr watched Ramsay’s irritation, keeping his own remarks hidden deep. The family dynamic was more strained than he’d thought. Littlefinger chose not to respond to Ramsay’s question and laughed instead. “Children. It’s little wonder the rich ones never learn. Thankfully our young queen has more wits about her.”

Cersei scoffed. “Myrcella is an innocent girl and I love her dearly, but she should listen more. If she asked for our enemies to be found and decimated, it would be done in an instant. There’s a trend of unyielding loyalty to her.” She shook her head. “I should never have let her agree to this marriage. The Spanish are too passionate, it’s getting to her head.”

“Her Majesty is in love,” said Roose. “I wish her good fortune. The more distracted she is, the more she stays out of my way.”

“Careful.” Cersei narrowed her eyes, a lioness in defense. “Myrcella may be naïve, but she is my daughter still.”

All the bickering over children and love was useless to Littlefinger. “I’m a busy man, Your Grace. Can we get to the point?”

“Please,” said Roose. “I have a meeting with Locke at two-thirty. I don’t plan to miss it.”

Cersei folded her hands atop the table, blonde curls waving like a river around her. Petyr saw the frustration on her face. It pleased him greatly. “Littlefinger, did you hear what happened to Meryn Trant?”

“Yes,” he said. “I heard it on the news. The man was hated. It doesn’t surprise me that someone finally killed him.”

“He wasn’t killed. He was butchered. Stabbed in the face and neck thirteen different times. The evidence doesn’t match the suspect.”

“Hasn’t Sandor Clegane confessed?” asked Roose.

“He has, but I know it wasn’t him.” Cersei's green eyes flared. “If Sandor wanted to kill someone, he’d smash their head in with a single fist. Thirteen stabs from a man like him would have left Meryn unrecognizable. No, this person was smaller. Child-sized. Traffic cameras caught this girl minutes after the police were called.” Cersei slid a photograph across the table to Littlefinger. A teenage girl with blue hair and blood on her hands crossed an intersection a half-mile down the street from The Brotherhood. Petyr recognized her immediately. _Fuck._

“A girl,” said Littlefinger. “You think a girl killed Meryn Trant? This blood could be from anything. There’s no evidence she was at the scene of the crime and you’ve no reason to believe Clegane would take the fall for her. The man’s half-burned and savage, what would he protect a child for?”

“He was always soft with Sansa Stark,” spat Cersei. “That little whore. I know she’s alive, and her beast-like sister, Arya. This must be her.”

Ramsay’s eyes were hungry at the mention of the Stark girls. _It’s too soon for this._  Littlefinger shook his head, already defensive. “She could be anyone. There’s not a clear picture of this girl’s face.” He examined the photo again. Short, dark eyes, pale skin. She faced away from the camera, but Petyr knew her look. The Stark look. He’d seen it enough in the pictures Cat would send, in the tabs he'd been keeping on Jon and Arya Stark for months until he'd lost them.  _Harry was right after all._  “Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed,” said Littlefinger. “Just after her fifteenth birthday. This girl looks older. Eighteen, nineteen. And the blood on her hands, not nearly enough to come from the injuries you describe on Meryn Trant. Even aside from all this, Your Grace, there is no reason why Clegane would take the blame for Arya Stark. He was loyal to  _your_  family before he left the service. Not theirs.” He dropped the photograph on the table. “I have another solution, if you’ll permit. A better one.”

Cersei quirked her brow. Ramsay smiled, and Roose motioned to Littlefinger with his chin. “Show us.”

From his coat, Petyr retrieved a folder. He placed it on the table, taking the picture at the top and pushing it to Cersei. “Harrold Hardyng,” he said. “An assassin from Germany. I believe he was behind the deaths of Mandon Moore and the others, as well as Mr. Trant.”

“Why?” asked Roose. “What would a foreign assassin want with any of us?”

“It’s not about you. Rather, what he was offered.” Petyr handed Roose Bolton the folder. “Someone hired him to carry out hits on your closest allies in attempt to weaken your position. In the folder, you’ll see the receipt from a multi-million euro deposit into Mr. Hardyng’s bank account.”

“Who hired him?”

Littlefinger shrugged. “I’m not sure. My people have been unable to trace Mr. Hardyng in the last several days. His last known location was Liverpool, but he’s since disappeared.”

“Do you have that location?” asked Cersei. “I can pass it along to my father. He could have agents there before sundown.”

“In the folder, Your Grace. Everything I know is there.” Littlefinger gave Roose and Cersei time to look everything over, sitting calm and collected as he always was. He remained indifferent to Ramsay’s presence in the room. A fly on the wall. “If you can afford it, I would be happy to find this boy for you. Or you could send some of your father’s agents. Frankly, I don’t care which.”

Cersei pondered that a moment. Littlefinger observed them, her drumming fingers, Roose’s tightened jaw, the glance of mutual worry they shared. “Find him,” said Roose. “We can haggle price later. I want to know who’s behind this. Whoever it is knows we’re after the Stark fortune, and wants to stop us from getting it.”

“I’ll speak to my father.” Cersei looked displeased, as though she’d failed in some great task. “Either my freakish little brother is behind this, or the Starks themselves. Lyanna’s boy hasn’t been found dead or alive, and neither has Arya or Sansa.” She stood from the table. When the Queen Mother rose, so too did everyone else. “I want them dead, Littlefinger, especially Sansa. Bring her to me and I’ll reward you in ways even you can’t imagine.”

Littlefinger grinned. It was hard for Cersei to make an appealing offer when his prized possession was her asking price. “I look forward to the possibilities,” he said. “If that concludes our business here, there are other places I need to be.”

“It does. I’ll have someone reach out to you.” Cersei took the folder and all of Petyr’s bait, and left the room promptly.

“She has a short fuse,” said Roose.

“Indeed.” Petyr pulled out his phone. A coded message from Mayana had come through, as planned.

_What’s the score?_

_8-6,_  Petyr replied.  _Raiders up. Get out of there._

Whoever found Harrold Hardying would be sorely disappointed.

Roose Bolton motioned to the door. “Walk with me.” Littlefinger obeyed, still aware of Ramsay lurking behind them as they reentered the open hallway.

“I’m sure it is troubling,” said Littlefinger, “to hear that your plans are being met with resistance.”

“Resistance?” said Roose. “Hardly. Some things take time. The Stark girl was an unfortunate loss, but I don’t expect to recover her. Girl’s likely dead. And if she lives, she knows better than to try anything against me or my son.”

Littlefinger glanced back to Ramsay. The boy’s eyes were sinister yet playful, looking directly at him. “Perhaps she is stronger than you care to admit,” he said. “She did manage to run from you after months of captivity. Such a shame, to let someone so valuable slip through your fingers.”

“And how would you have handled it?” Roose stopped walking, as did Petyr, who turned to face him in front of the elevator. “If you are an expert in hostages, then by all means, share your secrets. I should like to learn them.”

Petyr knew a threat when he heard one. Regardless, it was ill-made. He knew he had the upper hand, the match to light the Bolton dynasty aflame. Littlefinger summoned the lift and kept a sly smile. “That is a bit redundant at this point. You should have come to me sooner. Myrcella wears the crown, but everyone knowsI am the king of secrets here. If you wanted Sansa Stark to cooperate, I should have been your first contact. But here you are.”

“Here I am.” Roose’s expression was scorned. “She would have cooperated eventually, Littlefinger. Do not think me a fool.”

“You’re not a fool, Mr. Bolton. You’re selfish. In this, we are the same.” The elevator opened. Littlefinger stepped inside and pushed the button for the bottom floor. “Let me know if I can assist you.”

Roose nodded passively and kept walking. The doors began to slide shut, and Petyr pulled out his phone for further news.

A hand reached out and stopped the closing door. Petyr looked up. Ramsay stood before the elevator, looking flustered and embarrassed as the doors opened again. “I’m sorry," he said. "Do you mind if I ride with you? My father has another meeting and I’d rather wait in the car.”

 _No,_  thought Petyr,  _back off before I snap your neck._  But Littlefinger knew better than to raise the tension. “Plenty of room for two,” he said, and moved aside to let Ramsay stand next to him. The doors closed. The lift descended. Petyr stayed silent and still.

The air was thick. Petyr made no move to loosen his tie, standing patiently with his hands clasped in front of him. Ramsay bounced on his heels. Petyr eyed him sidelong. Ramsay was immaculate, a trimmed beard and handsome smile, clipped nails, bright eyes, a fine suit. Perfect at face value. They were alike in that manner. Petyr had something else in common with Ramsay: desire for Sansa Stark. But one of them had made her moan in pleasure, and the other had made her scream.

Ramsay pushed the red button on the elevator panel. The lights dimmed. The lift stopped. Petyr’s mask flipped from casual business to confrontation, and he turned to Ramsay with all the indifference he could muster. “An odd place for a private conversation,” he said.

“Not at all! I like it. Nice and cozy.” Ramsay smiled as though he was making a joke, but quickly arrived to the point. “My father doesn’t take the search for my bride-to-be seriously. Neither does Tywin Lannister.”

Littlefinger almost laughed. Oh, what a stupid boy. “What makes you think she's still alive?” he asked. “It’s been nearly three months. No one has seen her.”

“I know that,” said Ramsay in annoyance. “But she’s out there. I can feel her. I’m part of her now, you know.” He turned to Petyr. “You didn't answer my question earlier. Have you ever skinned a lamb before?”

Petyr ground his teeth. “Can’t say I have.”

“Oh,” said Ramsay. “That’s a shame. It’s so much fun. You take a fistful of that beautiful red hair and slam her head against a hard surface, like this.” Ramsay punched the elevator wall with a bang. Petyr didn’t flinch, only seethed. “Then you skin her while she’s still dizzy. All that nice wool her daddy paid so much money for, to make her pretty. And when it’s just you and her, naked and bloody in the slaughterhouse?” Ramsay sneered. “That's when the fun begins.”

 _Calm,_  urged Littlefinger,  _killing him in the lift won’t help Sansa._  Petyr took a slow breath. “A lovely analogy,” he said, “but I’m missing your point. I have things to do, Mr. Bolton, and listening to your fantasies isn’t one of them.”

“It wasn’t a fantasy. It was my reality. And I want it back.” Ramsay moved closer to push his point. “I want you to find her. You said it yourself, my father should have gone to you sooner, only he didn’t. So I will. Find Sansa, bring her back to me, and I’ll split the inheritance with you like the generous man I am. Fifty-fifty.” He pressed the red button. The lift began to move again, descending to the main lobby. “Think it over. I’d like to know before the end of the week, so I know whether to ready her room again.”

Petyr stayed silent. Flexed his fist. The lift moved down, down, until it reached the floor just above the lobby, and Petyr began to laugh. It was impossible not to. With a smile that did not reach his eyes, Petyr stopped the elevator with a push of the button. He squared his shoulders. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Bolton.”

From his belt, Petyr pulled his gun and slammed the barrel into Ramsay’s ribs. He kept him trapped with his forearm shoved into his neck, cutting off Ramsay’s windpipe. “I don’t like your games, Mr. Bolton. And I won’t be told what to do, not by you, your father, or anyone else. Do you understand me?”

Ramsay’s eyes were full of hate. He was at a loss, unsure how to play an unplayable man, but Petyr continued with a push of his arm against Ramsay’s throat. “Perhaps if you hadn’t treated Sansa Stark like a toy, she would never have left. But that would have required you to stop being the stupid, pathetic, monstrous little  _shit_  that you are.” Petyr pressed harder. Ramsay began to choke. “You don’t know how to behave. How else would I know that you bludgeoned your brother to death with an iron pipe in the back acres of your father’s property? That you repeatedly assaulted Sansa while she was under your protection? Your confession aside, it was obvious. Her avoidance of the public, her friends, her family, the social media she loved. But I suppose hindsight is always clearer.” Petyr thrust the Ruger harder into Ramsay’s side and reveled in his groan of pain. “And your little whore, Myranda. What a twisted thing she is. How will you explain to the court that the two of you find innocent women and murder them in your basement? Paying off the police won’t work if I get involved, you know. I’m much better than that.”

“You won’t do anything,” choked Ramsay. “You can’t kill me.”

“Can’t I?” Petyr jerked away, letting Ramsay fall to the floor in a heap. He shoved his gun in his waistband and pushed the red button. “The next time you threaten me, Mr. Bolton, I will blow your fucking head off.”

The lift chimed and opened. Petyr left.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

The drive home was silent. Ros tapped the steering wheel with her fingers, trying to break the tension. Petyr glared out the window to the slush and muddy snow piled up on the sides of the freeway. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Clarity, maybe. Inspiration to keep his heart cold, when all he felt was rage.

“Petyr,” said Ros gently. Traffic had them stopped in the city, which would irritate him more if it weren’t for Ramsay's words. “What happened? You really don’t… look good.”

“No,” he said. “I guess I don’t.” Petyr scratched his chin and kept his eyes on the mud. “Ramsay was there.”

Ros’s eyes went wide. “Ramsay  _Bolton?_  Why?”

“Roose is trying to teach him the ways of the game,” said Petyr. “It’s not working. He threatened me in the lift, so I put him in his place.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you? That you have Sansa?”

Petyr shook his head. “I’d much rather see the look on his face when she walks into Buckingham Palace on my arm.”

Ros sighed. “This isn’t good. Ramsay’s going to lash out. I don’t know what Sansa’s told you about him, but I’ve been working with her since she came to us. He’ll do anything to hurt her. Anything.”

“I wasn’t afraid to involve myself, Ros. I’ve met worse people than Ramsay Bolton and I’ve killed worse people than Ramsay Bolton.”

“But this isn’t about you, Petyr. This is about Sansa.”

Petyr knew Ros was right, but that didn’t make the thrill of his victory any less sweet. “Sansa is mine,” he said. “I won’t let that little bastard believe anything else.”

“Sansa doesn’t belong to you, though. Or anyone.” Ros shifted in her seat as if the idea bothered her to some extreme. “She’s with us because she wants to be. Not because you own her or because she has to. She wants to be with us. She loves us.”

Petyr couldn’t accept that. It was easier to claim Sansa as a possession than to believe she truly cared for him. The latter was impossible, even for a wonder like her.

His phone beeped. Petyr retrieved it and opened Sansa’s sent message. It was a picture of her — a “selfie” — all dolled up in extravagant makeup, smiling, perfection, with Olyvar winking behind her. Diamond earrings sparkled in the light.  _New Year’s test run,_  said the text.  _What do you think? (:_

Another hour would pass before he could taste her smile. Traffic kept Petyr from Sansa, kept him stuck on Ramsay’s words and what it meant to “skin a lamb.” A rare stroke of anxiety painted his mind black until he saw her in the manor doorway, safe and happy and  _his._ Ramsay Bolton couldn’t matter any less. Petyr held her face the first moment he could, barely through the door. He kissed her there, hard. It was foolish to be so affected by Ramsay’s words. He never intended to be dragged down, but he had been. Petyr parted Sansa’s lips with his tongue and tasted her. Sansa did not push away, and wrapped her arms loosely around his body as though she knew how much he needed her.

Nearly a minute ticked by before their kiss broke. There was worry in Sansa’s eyes like he knew there would be. “You are a welcome sight,” he said, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones. Her makeup had been removed. She was still just as beautiful. “I trust everything went well at the shooting range today?”

“Yes,” said Sansa. “Mayana says I’m getting good. I still have to work on moving targets, though.”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it. You’re a smart girl, a quick learner.” He kissed her forehead to prove his point. “After dinner, I want to time you on loading and unloading the Ruger. I know you don’t like guns, but you need basic training in case I or the others aren’t around to protect you.”

“I know. I’ve worked on it, I promise.” Sansa smiled, rubbing his back like the affectionate girl she was. It relaxed him. How had she learned to do that? “Will you tell me what’s wrong, Petyr? Did Queen Cersei say something, or…?”

Petyr should be proud of her observation skills, but it was inconvenient whenever Sansa was able to read him. “We can discuss it later, sweetling. Olyvar deserves a nice meal for his birthday.” Petyr reached behind him and took her hands, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a kiss. “Go on. Join the others in the dining room, I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Okay.” Sansa smiled at him, but Petyr knew her concern hadn’t ceased. She moved away, glancing over her shoulder before disappearing down the main hall.

Petyr shed his winter coat. He didn’t plan on staying away from her for long — how could he? — but his phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out. A text from Varys.

_You have a serious problem._

Seconds later, an incoming call. Cersei Lannister. Petyr answered it quickly. “What happened?”

 _“Turn on the news,”_  said Cersei.

Petyr went to the lounge. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV as directed.

The screen showed a mansion on fire. Petyr felt a hand on his back and knew Sansa was beside him long before he saw her. The others weren’t far behind.  _“The estate of Walder Frey has gone up in flames,”_  said the broadcaster.  _“Unfortunately, the Secretary of State and his sons did not make it out alive.”_

 _“Are you still there?”_  asked Cersei.

“Yes.” Petyr slid his arm around Sansa’s waist, bringing her close. “The Freys. How many are dead?”

 _“All of them. Their throats were slashed.”_   Cersei’s voice was low with boiling rage. _“This is not a coincidence. Someone is launching an attack on my allies and I want answers, Littlefinger_ _, I want them_ soon. _Or I’ll find someone else who can give them to me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how this fic is a round-trip ticket to pain and suffering? BUCKLE UP KIDS, THE PLOT'S ABOUT TO GOOOOO  
> I enjoyed my week off. <3 I've got two chapters queued up and I'm back on the horse for part two. AYY. Damn, I'm so stoked, this story is gonna be so good adfljagjlkjgalskg  
> I don't really have that much to say here??? I'm just so excited??? BYE LOVELIES, I hope you had a good week off too! See you next Saturday for a trip to Arya town. ;) I wonder what that little punk's up to.


	12. Lead Us Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[sabotage; beastie boys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a64cJiGKr7c)] ◆ [[lead me home; jaime n commons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K53Lf5Jkbjs)]   
> 

  
**29 DECEMBER, 2016**

Arya knew how to properly cut a throat. Slicing wasn’t right. Into the carotid artery, then down, not across. Snap the vocal cords so the victim can’t scream. She gripped Needle tight and jammed the pointy end through Walder Frey’s jugular. She jerked downward and out, ripping open his throat and severing the flow to his brain. Blood rushed from his wrinkled neck and stained his suit in crimson. His sons were beside him, dead. A sea of scarlet pooled at her feet. Arya made no move to step away.

_Justice._

_“Are you about finished yet?”_  asked Jon impatiently through her earpiece.  _“Come on, Arya, get out of there.”_

“Hold on. Almost got it.” She wiped Needle on Walder’s sleeve and moved to his computer, reading the download percentage. 97%. 98%. 99%. 100. Arya hit the enter key and yanked the flash drive from Frey’s desktop. “Be there in a sec.” She eyed the clock. Five minutes ahead of schedule, perfect. She rushed to the window and opened it, feeling the winter breeze brush across her cheek like a kiss. It could be. A mark of pride from God, for a job well done.

Arya braced her foot on the windowsill and prepared to jump. The crackling fireplace caught her eye. She had an idea; more justice. _“You’d better be out of that building,”_  scolded Jon, but Arya ignored him, running to the hearth to turn up the gas. She snatched every liquor bottle at the bar and doused her surroundings in the alcohol Walder Frey had loved so much. Security personnel banged on the office door, the one she’d barred with a desk and three pairs of handcuffs. Time was running out. She threw the bottles until they shattered along the walls, spoiling photographs of a happy Frey life, ignition to mimic the fire that had made ashes of her past. Foot on the sill, she launched the final bottle directly at the fireplace and leapt.

Arya flailed mid-air until her body collided with a tree branch. She clung to it tightly and kept her face away, expecting an explosion, but all she registered was pain and the wind that’d been knocked out of her. “Shit,” she cursed. “Shit! Come on, Bran, give me a hand here.”

 _“What?”_  said Jon.

“Nothing,” she panted. “I’m out.” Arya looked up at the window. The fire was spreading, slowly but surely. Alarms began to ring. She hadn’t thought that through. “Oh, crap.”

_“What the hell did you do? Jesus, Arya, I knew we should have waited until I could do it myself—”_

“Just shut up!” Arya unwrapped herself from the branch and dropped to the ground hard. She landed on both feet, but her legs shook from the blow and she winced. “Start the van. I’m coming.”

_“Make it fast.”_

Arya broke into a run. She was incredibly quick, and adrenaline pushed her through exhaustion. The wooded area of the Frey estate brought shelter from wandering eyes. Arya followed the route they’d mapped until she came to the neighborhood where Jon was parked, to the windowless van they’d stolen. She threw open the door and scrambled into the passenger seat. “Drive,” she ordered. “Now!”

Jon did as he was told. He drove until they came to the freeway, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds in fear they were being followed. Brother and sister merged onto the M40 and didn’t take a breath until an hour had passed and they were still roaming free.

 _Holy shit,_  Arya thought with a smile _. I did that._  

Arya climbed into the back of the van, around Jon’s computers and equipment they’d gone broke to buy, until she reached a cooler near a turned-over chair. The wireless connections to the Frey manor's security had been broken, the screens showing only static. Looking at them made her uneasy. She turned them off. Arya reached into the cooler for water to wash the sticky blood from her hands and change into the sweater and jeans she’d packed. When she was done, she grabbed a Coke and cheese sticks to bring with her to the passenger seat. She settled in, rebuckled her seatbelt — getting pulled over would  _not_  be good — and offered one of the sticks to Jon. “Hungry?”

“No,” he said. “Thanks.”

Ayra peeled open the plastic and bit into cold cheddar.  _“Stay fed on the road,”_  Luwin had told her.  _“Take care of yourself.”_ She hadn’t wanted to tell the old man goodbye, but it wouldn’t be safe to drag an innocent person down the path of vigilante justice Jon and Arya had chosen to walk. They'd reluctantly parted ways. Luwin offered sound advice and a gift, the mezuzah he'd received on his wedding day, which he gave to Arya just before she’d left.  _“To remind you that home is where the heart is.”_

They drove past cell towers and farmland. Night had fallen, and Arya could see the moon’s reflection off fields void of crops, remnants of snow making white patches along the land. The sky was dotted with stars. Arya tried to find as many constellations as she could. She remembered watching the night sky with all her siblings as a child, laying on the roof in the cold when they were supposed to be sleeping. Arya still found herself stargazing from time to time, if only in grief. It was better than crying.

Jon pulled off the motorway, in the middle of nowhere, to the abandoned barn they’d taken shelter in. There was nothing but empty fields for miles. Jon pulled into the building, killing the van’s engine, and Arya shivered as she closed and locked the broken doors behind them.

The two-story barn was their residence now, for however long it would last. Filled with old hay, raccoons and a small family of rats, it was cozy for the most part, secluded and far from civilization. A generator powered heated blankets during the night and the air was cold enough to keep groceries fresh without a fridge. The back of the van had become Jon and Arya's office of electronics, most of which they couldn’t use so far from internet service, but Arya managed to hack the occasional connection. Bran had been wonderful with technology, in another life. Arya used to help him tap into their school’s website and change holiday dates on the public calendar. Between Bran’s memory, Arya’s tech-savvy ways and Jon’s Night’s Watch training, the two of them managed a fair setup. They were confident in their anonymity. For now.

“Did you get the flash drive?” asked Jon, closing the car door.

“Right here.” Arya pulled the stick from her pocket and hopped into the back of the van, taking a seat on a stool. She pet Ghost when he climbed in and settled at Jon’s feet. “You think we can reach Sam from out here?”

“I think we can try.” Jon turned on the computers, connected to a second generator they’d bought for the sole purpose of their mission. Arya hacked their way into some low-signal internet. All this success made her feel like an action movie hero, someone straight out of an old movie.  _Rickon would be proud._  Jon did some work with the keyboard and pulled up a video app on-screen. Arya heard a phone ring. In a cluster of broken pixels and low quality frames, the fat, smiling face of Samwell Tarly came into view.

“You made it!” Sam exclaimed. He was dressed all in black, sitting in an unsuspicious Afghan home outside the Wall. “Good heavens, I’ve been worried.”

“We’re safe, for now.” Jon and Arya shared a rare smile. “We can barely hear you though. The connection’s not great. Might have to repeat yourself once or twice.”

“That’s alright. I’m just happy to see you  _not_  in the clutches of MI5. Or worse.” Sam chuckled. “I can’t believe you did it. A Secretary of State, too.” He pointed to Arya. “You’re good.”

Arya sat up straighter, quite pleased with herself. “Thank you.”

“I’d tell you to join the Night’s Watch, but… well. That’s a bad idea.” Sam, jolly as ever, gestured with his thumb to a room at the other end of the house. “It’s my night off, so I snuck away to see Gilly and the baby. I’m just happy to not be at the Wall. Everyone’s on edge and the news channels have gone batty. Even the Americans are concerned.”

“What are they saying?” asked Jon.

“Well, mostly it’s just fear for other politicians. Some of them are talkin’ conspiracy. Which, you know, they’re half-right. But so far it doesn’t look like they’ve found a suspect, so you should be in the clear for a bit.”

Jon sighed in relief. “I was surprised at how easy the Frey security was to outplay.”

“Maybe he thought the Lannisters would protect him,” said Arya. “He should’ve known better. Too late now.”

Sam took a drink of water from a canister. “Have you looked at the flash drive yet?”

“No,” said Jon. “We were waitin’ for you.”

“Oh. Well, I’m here now. Plug it in and send it on over.”

Arya retrieved the flash drive from her pocket. She pushed it into the USB port on the computer tower, and Jon began a download. “Gonna take a bit,” said Jon. “But that’s alright. We can catch up.”

Arya listened while the two soldiers talked. Sam gave updates on all of Jon’s friends from the service — apparently Edd was coming back to London soon — and they spoke of things that went completely over Arya’s head, like military lingo and jokes in Pashto and shitty food. Arya couldn't wrap her head around it, but Jon had been happy in his life with the Watch. She stayed silent and let them prattle on. It was much more entertaining to listen, anyway.

“Download’s done,” said Jon after a few minutes. “Let me send it over to you.”

“Got it.” Sam began typing. Arya’s leg bounced anxiously and she tried to keep her thoughts from spilling everywhere like water. “Ready to see what Walder Frey’s been hiding?”

“Yeah,” said Jon. “I’m ready.” He looked to Arya, who nodded before he double-clicked.

The files opened. The Freys weren’t known for organization, but there was enough to raise considerable suspicion. In the documents were three separate folders: Wives, Daughters, and Granddaughters. “Gross,” said Arya. “I don’t want to know what’s in those.”

“We don’t have a choice but to find out.” Jon hovered over the Wives file. “Didn’t Walder Frey only have one wife?”

“Two, I think,” said Sam. “Remarried after the first one died.”

“This should be interesting, then.”

Jon opened the folder. The images that surfaced made Arya recoil. Dozens of naked women in a series of obscene positions, videos and photoshoots. All pornographic. All exploited. “Jesus,” spat Jon. “What the hell is this?”

“Sex trafficking.” Arya clenched her fists. “Meryn Trant talked about it too, with the German boy I told you about. Said he was gonna buy some girls because Walder knew the best sellers.”

Sam looked like he was going to be sick, covering his mouth to hold it in. “Someone has to turn this over to the authorities. There are, what, twenty women here? Maybe more?”

“Maybe. And I don’t want to see what ‘Granddaughters’ means,” growled Jon. “We can’t bring this to the police in person, though. They’d arrest  _us_  instead.”

“I know someone.” Arya stole the keyboard from Jon’s lap, closing out of the atrocious folder and pulling up a separate email account. She typed so hard that her fingers hurt. “Officer Tarth. She’s the one who arrested Sandor when he got in the fight that discharged him from the service. He said she was good. If he thought she was okay, we can too.”

“Tarth.” Jon folded his arms in thought. “I know that name. Was she the one that always wanted to be in your mum’s guard detail? They were good mates.”

“Yep. Same lady.” Arya pulled up Brienne Tarth’s profile on the London police website. “She’s still active. I’ve gotta send her all this.”

“The police will be able to trace where the email was sent from,” said Sam. “Evidence like this would make them want to come looking for you. Especially now that Walder Frey… well, you know.”

“What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just let these girls get bought. Girls shouldn’t be bought.” Arya drafted a carefully-worded email with the attached files, an anonymous tip, and sent it off without waiting for approval. A great weight lifted off her shoulders as though it had been there for years.

“Oh dear,” said Sam. “Are you done with that bit? Look in the ‘Young Wolf’ section of Mr. Frey’s account. I don’t mean to upset you, but it’s important.”

 _Young Wolf?_  Arya did as Sam advised. The folder was filled with long conversations between Walder, Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton. The emails were dated from mid-January to October. A list of Robb’s schedules, pictures of him and Talisa on the street, his bank statements and credit card numbers, a copy of his driver’s license. His class schedule. Photos of him inside his flat, taken through the windows. “They were stalking him,” muttered Arya. A pang of pain rose in her throat. She hated how seeing Robb's face was bittersweet under the circumstances.

“Look at this,” said Jon. He pointed to a line and read it aloud. “‘Don’t forget Lyanna’s boy at the Wall. The fewer heirs there are, the more we share.’”

“‘The girl will make a nice match for Ramsay,’” read Arya. “‘She's the weakest link. He’ll break her, and when he does, we’ll celebrate with a good scotch.’”

Jon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “They planned it all. Right from the beginning. Robb’s death, Father’s, Bran’s and Rickon’s and the others…”

“Oh, no.” Sam paled. “The October ones. Listen: ‘Has your boy broken her yet?’ asks Tywin Lannister. ‘Working on it,’ Roose Bolton replies, ‘he’s getting close. We'll have it signed over soon.’”

“What did they do?” Arya looked to her brother, more worried than she’d ever been for the sister she’d loved to hate. The possibilities of Sansa's suffering made Arya shudder. “‘Broken her’? What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what I think it means.” Jon’s jaw was tight. Arya had never seen him so filled with hate. “You heard the rumors, we all did. No one did a thing about it, though, and  _that’s why._ ” He jabbed his finger at the computer screen. “Roose Bolton had Tywin Lannister protectin’ ‘im the whole bloody time. All because of Father’s fortune. That’s why they wanted me dead at the Wall, why they tried to find you, why they killed our family. Just so we’d be out of the way. So they could take everything Father left for us, using Sansa.”

Arya knew she should feel rage. And she did, undeniably, but it mixed with unparalleled fear for her sister’s wellbeing. “So she’s gotta be alive then,” Arya concluded with wide eyes. “She has to be! If Shitface is still looking for her—”

“—it means they haven’t secured the money another way,” finished Jon, “and they still need her before she turns eighteen. She must’ve run.” Jon took the keyboard from Arya’s lap, making a list of people Sansa might have gone to. “I thought they’d done something with her. I didn’t think that maybe she’d actually gotten away on her own.”

“Right,” Sam agreed. “It’s one thing for the Lannisters to say she ran, but another if she really did.”

“Where would she go, though?” Arya leaned back in her seat. “Where would she go that would keep her away from Shitface for this long and not leave the country?”

“The Pooles?” Jon thought aloud. “No, wait, I already checked them. They moved to California. There’s no way the Lannisters would have let Sansa sneak away on a plane, she would’ve been stopped at the airport. And Mr. Reed's already been killed.” Jon ran his fingers through his hair, stressed. “I think we’ve hit a dead end.”

“Not really.” Sam offered a reassuring smile. “You’ve learned who’s involved in your family’s murder and what was done. Now you know who your next targets are.”

“The others won’t be nearly as easy as Walder Frey. The Lannisters and Boltons keep a tight security, tighter now that Frey is gone.” Jon rubbed his shoulder. “And my arm’s not a-hundred percent either. Arya can’t do it alone next time, it’s too big a task.”

“So what do we do now?” Arya turned to her brother. “We can’t just do nothing.”

“I don’t know.” Jon scratched his beard, thinking out loud. “Where would Sansa go? Who would keep her safe this long?”

“We’re back at square one.” Arya sighed. “I hate square one.”

“It’s alright,” said Sam. “We’ll find her. People have gone missing for longer and turned up, right? And if she ran away, it shows that she’s got some strength left. So don’t give up. Sansa didn’t, why should we?”

Jon’s smile was tense, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Thanks, Sam. For everything.”

“No need to thank me. You’re my brother, so that makes Sansa my sister too, and we’re gonna find her together.” Arya saw Jon’s pained expression in her peripheral. “Why don’t you two get some sleep? I’ll keep going through these documents and see if I can find anything else.”

“Sounds good. Night, Sam.” Jon tried to grin. It looked more like a grimace.

“Night,” said Arya with a wave. The call ended. Jon turned off the computer. Moments of silence passed. “You did good today, Arya. Really.”

“You too. Nice work on the cameras and stuff.” Arya held out her hand, and he gave her a high five. She stood from her seat. “C’mon, grumpy, stop moping. I’m tired.”

Brother and sister bunkered down for the night. The lights were shut off, the car battery, the lamps. They settled in the barn stall they’d cleaned and made into a bedroom. Hanging sheets kept the half-walls closed in, trapping heat inside. Jon plugged in their electric blankets and Arya bundled up, shivering until the warmth finally came. Jon laid down beside her. Their backs were together, staying close, and Ghost curled up at their feet.

 _Jon. Sansa. Home._  That had been her list before, an innocent one, but Arya found a new list that felt sweeter on her tongue. _Roose Bolton. Tywin Lannister. Cersei Lannister. Ramsay Bolton._

She fell asleep whispering the names. 

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**30 DECEMBER, 2016**

Morning came too soon. A break in the wood walls let sunlight hit Arya’s face, stirring her from a sleep she’d barely earned. She rolled over, fighting to get back to the wolf dream she’d had, but her body was too sore and hungry to succumb. She rubbed her eyes and sat up from the warm cocoon of her electric blanket. “Shit,” she whispered with a shiver. _Too cold._  She could smell sausage cooking, heard the sizzle of fat and oil and the chomp of Ghost’s jaws. “Good boy,” said Jon. “You’re getting better at catching.”

Ghost heard Arya move. He trotted into the stall and licked Arya all over her face, sniffing her and running around. “Okay,” chuckled Arya. “I’m up, I’m up. Get out of my face.” She playfully shoved Ghost’s snout away and crawled from her nest. She unplugged the blanket and peeled back the hanging sheets, letting Ghost run outside into the open fields where crops and cattle once roamed.

“Morning,” said Jon with a half-smile. A troubled smile. He sat in front of their makeshift fire pit, cooking sausage in a pan. “I’m makin’ breakfast if you want some.” He held up a bowl of steaming scrambled eggs, two spoons sticking out the side.

“Thanks.” Arya sat cross-legged beside him. She took the bowl and spoon, blowing off the eggs until they had cooled enough to take a bite. Jon plucked the cooking sausage from the pan and piled the links onto a paper plate. The two of them ate in silence, simply grateful to be in each other’s presence with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. She’d gone so long without a house to call home, but Arya was beginning to understand that home was wherever Jon was. Wherever Sansa would be.

“I was thinkin’ I could start trainin’ ya,” said Jon after a time. “How to use a gun. How to load, how to fire. You can’t just use your fists and Needle all the time. Our enemies won’t stop to throw a punch if they don’t have to.”

Arya shoveled the eggs in her mouth. “That’d be good. Walder Frey barely had any security people, but the others won’t be that stupid. Especially not Tywin.”

“Not Tywin.” Jon pulled a piece of challah from a plastic bag and ripped off a chunk for himself, before passing it to Arya. “Here.”

“Thanks.” She took the bread. Luwin had baked them several fresh batches before they’d left. “Have you been able to talk to Val yet?”

“No.” The mere mention of her made Jon’s expression heavy. “Last I heard, she was on her way to Dubai with her family. She said she’d get ahold of Sam when she was safe, but that’s not an easy thing.”

“I’m sure she’s okay.” Arya bit into the challah and shrugged. “If she’s as tough as you say, she’s probably there already. And safe. Just like Sansa is.”

“Maybe. I just can’t help but worry that she’s dead.”

“Who? Val or Sansa?”

“Both.”

Arya frowned. “They’re not dead. I wasn’t. Sansa’s not, they would’ve found her body by now or stopped searching for her. And Val isn’t dead either. Sam would’ve heard about it. You know that Thorne guy would’ve bragged about it or something.”

“That’s probably true.” Jon didn’t seem convinced, though. Only uncomfortable. Arya wondered why he found it so hard to trust her word. Ghost began to bark outside, and Jon huffed, looking thirty years older. “Can you get Ghost? If he keeps barking like that, he’ll draw attention.”

“Sure.” Arya set her food down and slipped on her winter boots. “Try to cheer up. I didn’t save your life just have you die on me.”

He smiled at that.

Morning frost crunched under her feet as she stepped on frozen mud and grass. Her breath came in puffs of fog through the air. “Ghost!” Arya called. “Come here, boy! Want a treat?”

The dog didn’t come. He continued to bark and pounce wildly back and forth, growing madder by the second, bounding in circles and wagging his tail. Arya stopped. She heard it before she saw it. A black SUV driving off the road, toward her.

“Jon!” Arya cried. She bolted for the barn. Jon met her there, reaching for the handgun he kept with him and slamming the barn door shut after Ghost raced inside. Jon cocked his weapon and stood in ready position in front of the van, the barrel pointing straight at the barn door. “Get behind the wheel,” ordered Jon. “Turn on the car and drive away.”

“What? No!” Arya clenched her fists in balls of rage. “Stop being stupid, I’m not going without you!”

“There’s no time to argue about it!” Jon shouted. “I’ll cover for you. Take all the files and leave, I’m not riskin’ your life!”

Outside, a car door slammed shut. An engine died. Ghost started growling and Jon and Arya exchanged a nervous glance. He kept a grip on his gun. “I’m armed!” Jon said to the intruders. “I’m a man of the Night’s Watch, I will shoot you if you open that door!”

“No need, Mr. Stark!” called a man’s voice. “I did not come here to fight. I’ll wait out here in the cold if it makes you more comfortable, though warmer surroundings are preferred.”

Arya paused. Jon’s shoulders lowered only a moment before tensing again. “Who are you?”

“A concerned party,” said the man. “A friend.”

“My father was promised friendship too,” spat Arya.

“I know. I could have you surrounded if it means you’ll come speak to me, but I do hate to use excessive force. It’s gotten our little country into quite a big mess.”

Arya didn’t recognize the stranger’s voice. By the look on Jon’s face, he didn’t either. “What do we do?” she whispered. “He could be bluffing.”

Jon didn’t answer. The man didn’t press them for time, but Arya was out of patience. She stormed toward the entrance and ignored Jon shouting her name, and yanked open the barn door.

The stranger was unassuming. Long black winter coat, a bald head, fuzzy earmuffs. Three armed agents stood around him. He smiled when he saw her. “You must be Arya,” he said. “You really do look like your father. It’s almost like I’m looking right into his eyes.”

“Who are you?” demanded Arya. “Leave us alone or my brother will kill you.  _I’ll_  kill you.”

“Well, which do you want me to do? Answer your question or leave?” He put his hands in his pockets. Arya felt Jon at her side, weapon still at the ready. “I suggest you come along. A young, murderous heir and heiress on the run are likely targets for worse people than me.”

“What does MI6 want with us?” Jon asked. The armed men kept their guns locked on him. “I know those uniforms.”

“Oh, they’re just for insurance. In case any unwanted visitors happened to find you before I did.” He gave a sad smile. “Unfortunately, there are many out there who would take a Stark for their own gain.”

“What does that even mean?” Arya fired. “Tell us what you want or we’ll kill you, end of story.”

The stranger sighed. “No harm in being honest, I suppose. My name is Varys. I’m here to protect you.” He took a step forward. “And I know who has your sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *law & order's DUN DUN plays in the background*  
> this chapter took me soooooo looooooong idk man, it's a huge deal for the audience but as the writer I've already been through the shock of these realizations!!! so idk. i hope it all came across as i intended. :)  
> OKAY BUT NEXT WEEK'S UPDATE??? FUCK. **HUGE** CHAPTER. I'm like so excited to post it and listen to y'all scream. I JUST REALLY LOVE SANSA STARK OKAY, AND I'M HERE FOR HER HAVING A GOOD TIME, AND I'M ADGALKRGJALKJALK  
>  See you Saturday, lovelies! xoxo


	13. She Blooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * I've got some links for you. Because this is a pivotal chapter and I'm a slut for aesthetic.  
> 
> * Sansa: [hair](https://68.media.tumblr.com/be7d85159a0c1da38ed2244c4cb30ab5/tumblr_of9o84xqxE1sbvjiio3_500.jpg), [dress](http://i.imgur.com/x0fdMf4.jpg) (credit to @kingbae-lish on tumblr for photoshopping the dress, thank you!!)  
> 
> * Petyr: [suit](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/e5/50/52/e55052e3e62fca2d109e822361e5d221.jpg), [tie](http://imgs.inkfrog.com/pix/tiecandy/SILVER.jpg)  
> 
> * Buckingham Palace: [ballroom](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FkS6siBURdA/TjCFHRV7RWI/AAAAAAAABBw/Jx08GYhJt7g/s1600/ballroom.jpg), [blue drawing room](https://mistermoftelford.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/5649396216_ce131faa11_z.jpg)  
> 
> * one day i will have my life back
>   
> 
> 
> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[the way you look tonight; frank sinatra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9ZGKALMMuc)] ◆ [[don't hurt yourself; beyoncé, jack white](http://audio.naij.com/120132-beyonce-dont-hurt-yourself-\(ft-jack-white\))]* ◆ [[trouble; halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2aTxmwRiJQ)]

  
**31 DECEMBER, 2016**

Sansa felt like a queen. The stakes were too high for her to be anything less. She sat in front of the vanity mirror, admiring her mask of makeup, barely listening to Jeyne blabbering on about Stanford and boys on the other end of the phone. Sansa finished a final stroke of neutral pink on her lips and made a silly face in the mirror.  _“I don’t know, Sansa. At least your weird boyfriend gives you straight signals.”_

Sansa chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly.”

_“Do you think daddies are just better at saying what they mean?”_

Sansa nearly fell out of her chair, mortified. “No! No,  _please_  don’t call him that. He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

Jeyne’s cackles turned to mimicking moans. _“Oh, Daddy! Harder Daddy, please, please!”_

Sansa dropped her lipstick so fast that the cap broke. She scrambled to her phone and shut off the speaker, bringing it to her ear. “Jeyne! You were on speaker.”

_“Do you think he heard me?”_

“God, I hope not.” Sansa turned to her door, knowing Petyr could be listening on the other side. “I can’t believe you said that.”

 _“It’s true, though.”_  Jeyne giggled. _“Get ready for your gala and send me pics! I gotta head out soon anyway. My friends want to make sure we get to San Francisco before they have huge lines for parties and stuff.”_

“That makes sense. You’ll have fun. Be safe, okay?”

 _“I will. You too. Bye, baby girl!”_ Sansa rolled her eyes, said farewell and happy New Year, and hung up the phone.

“Daddy,” Sansa muttered. “Ridiculous.” She stood in front of the floor-length mirror and admired the gown she’d chosen for the gala. A silver bodice with a sweetheart neckline bore etchings of hundreds of feathers, and a black train of real feathers fell from her hips to the floor, like a songbird. Her eyes were winged with liner, lashes curled, rose-colored lips turned upwards in a smile, auburn hair pinned back in a bun with two stray curls falling away by her ears. Petyr's Christmas gift of diamond earrings sparkled under the light, and the Magen David remained at its place around her neck despite the clashing gold. “Wow,” she whispered.  _I really do look nice._

A knock came at her door. “Yes?” she called, but she knew who was there. The others had taken the holiday off, leaving Sansa and Petyr alone. There could be no one else.

Her bedroom door opened. Petyr froze when he saw her. He stood in the doorway with a hand on the knob, mouth open with words that never came. She curled her hair behind her ear, feeling sheepish and shy, even though he’d seen more of her than anyone else. “Not bad?”

“No. Not bad at all.” Petyr’s awe faded to fervent lust. He came to her, hands on her waist to pull her in, but she pressed her finger against his lips to stop his advance. “No kisses,” said Sansa. “I just put lipstick on.”

“Oh, the things you do to me.” He kissed her jaw instead, her neck, teasing her as she was teasing him. Chills chased down Sansa's spine, but Petyr had the grace to stop before he pushed too far. “There are no words that do your beauty justice. The newspapers, the broadcasts, the web; no one will be disappointed by the return of Sansa Stark.” He took a stray curl between his fingers, eyeing her earrings with a cocky grin. “You will shock them all.”

“I don’t care about them,” she replied. “Not really. I just want to get this over with.” Sansa adjusted Petyr’s silver tie and mockingbird pin. “I really like your look. Your hair, the cologne, all of it.” Sansa toyed with the gray at his temple and smiled when he kissed the inside of her wrist. Petyr’s fitted three-piece suit brought a dashing, characteristic sharpness to him. The two of them could conquer the world like this. _And we really could,_  she thought,  _he's taught me what to do._

“Perhaps I should wear suits more often for you, sweetling, but only if you wear dresses for me.” He stepped away and offered his hand to her. “Come. We shouldn’t waste any more time.”

The New Year’s Ball would be Sansa’s grand reveal to the public eye. She would confront her ghosts and make a claim to what belonged to her: her father’s fortune, and justice. But there was still room for fear. Petyr carefully helped her into the back of the limousine he’d hired to bring them, and kissed her knuckles to soothe her. “You have come too far to lose now,” he assured. “Let us show them what it means to underestimate a Stark.”

Sansa quite liked the sound of that.

Petyr held her hand during the ride to Buckingham Palace. They talked about the gala and what to expect, but nothing too explicit that the driver might remember. “No one will try anything,” Petyr promised. “Not with Walder Frey’s killer still on the loose. There is nowhere you could be safer, except back at home.”

“I like being home.” Sansa tried not to frown. “I know this is important, but I’ll be glad when it’s over.” She looked to their joined hands, her skin soft and young, his slightly wrinkled with visible veins. She traced one absentmindedly. “Will there be cameras?”

Petyr nodded. “The paparazzi are going to harass you. They’ll ask questions about Ramsay. They’ll do whatever they can to get a reaction. Be calm, my dear, and ignore them. You can make a public statement at a later date if you feel the need.”

“What if Ramsay tries to take me back?” she asked. “Tries to steal me or something. Or if the police come after you for kidnapping.”

Petyr laughed. “Do you think I’d bring you into a situation where you are at any risk of returning to him?” He reached over and touched her cheek. “No one would dare steal what belongs to me. You’ve said that you trust me, sweetling. So trust me.”

 _I do. I do trust you._  Sansa lifted their entwined hands and placed a kiss to the back of his palm, to show him. She watched Littlefinger slip away to her Petyr, eyes passionate, and he kissed her hand in return.

The limo came to a halt near the edge of a red carpet. Not a single photographer or newscaster focused on their arrival. Most were directed to Prince Stannis and Princess Shireen, hounding him with questions of his strange affair, or following Prince Renly and Loras Tyrell until they reached the palace hand-in-hand.

Petyr exited the limousine. He offered his hand to Sansa, which she took, and helped her from the back seat. Sansa stood tall on solid ground. She slipped her arm in Petyr’s before he ever offered it, and they climbed the stairs together to Buckingham Palace.

No one recognized her. Sansa was content to remain unnoticed, but her luck disappeared when her red hair and Jewish pendant gave her away. “Sansa Stark,” muttered a reporter. “Jesus, it’s Sansa Stark.”

“Calm,” said Petyr, only to her. “Breathe.”

But she didn’t need his encouragement. Sansa felt strong on her own, for there was nothing a few journalists could do to her that hadn’t already been done.

Cameras flashed and reporters shouted questions, but Sansa denied them all. She kept quiet and walked on Petyr’s arm until they reached the main doors, and their invitations were exchanged for entry. The press had become a circus, but royal security pulled through, and no one was allowed inside to harass her. Sansa finally exhaled when she was safe. Petyr waited for her to regain composure before continuing down the hall, keeping close.

The palace ballroom was nothing like Sansa remembered from her days with Joffrey. Patterned crimson carpeting, long tables with fine china and decorative glass, roses and candelabras, crystal chandeliers, a small orchestra, a space for the Royal Family at the head of the banquet table. Sansa craned her neck to admire the architecture, the lights, how high the music travelled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Petyr. “It is brighter now that Myrcella is queen.”

“It’s incredible,” Sansa replied in wonderment. She remembered Joffrey’s awful sense of décor that she’d pretended to like, a lifetime ago. “It’s so elegant. I feel out of place.”

“On the contrary, sweetling, you fit the atmosphere to perfection.” He placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. She felt a hundred eyes staring at her. “Come with me. I’m sure there are many who would like to meet you.”

Sansa followed where Petyr led her. He knew everyone, it seemed. They exchanged pleasantries with Prince Oberyn and his wife, Ellaria, of Spain. The Spanish royals had done business with Littlefinger in the past, and were happy to greet him as a friend, treating Sansa no differently than any other guest. She met with Foreign Secretary Tyrell, who praised Sansa for her strength and offered help whenever needed. They spoke with Tyrion and Shae as well, making small talk over champagne while guests filed into the ballroom. They were mid-conversation about Shae’s upcoming due date when Sansa felt a tap on her shoulder.

Sansa turned. The man behind her was bald, dressed in a fine suit with shoes so clean they reflected the lights. “Forgive me for startling you, Miss Stark. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“My friend,” said Petyr, perhaps a bit too loud. Sansa felt his arm wrap tight around her waist, ignoring Tyrion and Shae entirely in favor of the newcomer. “What a surprise. Here I thought you’d skip this little event. Only important people were invited, after all.”

Sansa nearly commented on Petyr’s rudeness until the stranger replied. “An odd thing, I know, considering myself important. But many here do. Just as they consider you important.”

“Because I am. How is your night, Varys?”

There was something hostile between them. Hate, masked with friendliness. Or was it competition? Sansa didn’t know. Varys politely clasped his hands behind his back as if nothing was amiss. “My evening has been wonderful so far, thank you for asking. But I had hoped to speak with Miss Stark privately.”

“Anything you can say to her, you can say to me.” Petyr tightened his hold on her waist.  _He doesn’t trust this man,_  thought Sansa.  _Maybe I shouldn’t either._

“I understand. It would be a shame if she were to again fall in the hands of those who would use her.” Sansa didn’t like his tone. “I merely wanted to offer my apologies for the terrible loss of your family, Miss Stark. Your father was a good man. And your mother and three brothers… such a tragedy. I hope you’re doing alright.”

“Thank you,” said Sansa warily. “I appreciate it, and I am doing better. Littlefinger and his associates have taken great care of me. I know my father would be proud of how far I’ve come.” The last statement tasted false, no matter how she wanted to believe it. She forged a smile. “I’m sure you’re very busy. I hope you enjoy yourself and have a happy New Year.” Not allowing Varys a reply, Sansa took Petyr by the hand, hoping he would read her discomfort. Petyr laced their fingers together and walked with her to the other side of the ballroom, away from Varys and Tyrion Lannister.

“Who was that?” asked Sansa. “He doesn’t look familiar. My father never talked about him.”

“He is no one,” said Petyr, but there was mischief in his eyes when he kissed her knuckles. “An old friend.”

“A rival,” she clarified.

“That depends on who you ask.”

The lights dimmed. Guests were encouraged to find their plates, bringing the gala to its formal beginning. Sansa stayed close to Petyr as they were directed to their labeled seats at the long table, a pair by the window with a view of the moonlit garden.

“Well, if it isn’t Littlefinger,” laughed a voice. Prince Renly Baratheon clapped Petyr hard on the back, startling Sansa. “It’s a miracle you’re not actually wearing upholstery this time.”

“Your Highness, you wound me.” Petyr placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Your interest in my wardrobe is flattering, though. Perhaps if you gave your personal affairs as much attention.” He shook hands with the prince. Sansa nearly forgot herself.  _How many people does Petyr know?_

“And you must be Sansa Stark.” Renly took her hand and kissed it. “I was sorry to hear about your father. If justice still exists, we can put the monsters who killed your family in prison where they belong. Or better yet, an open desert and leave them to rot.”

“Thank you.” Sansa gave a small smile before she gasped. “I mean, thank you, Your Highness.”

Renly introduced Sansa to Loras Tyrell, his boyfriend, whom Sansa once had a raging crush on in her younger years that Arya used to tease her for. She shook his hand while the guests took their seats, pleased to find that he would sit beside her and the Foreign Secretary for the duration of the meal, and even more relieved when they proved to be pleasant, noninvasive company. Sansa felt she could use a little more of that.

Renly kissed his lover on the cheek. “It seems we’re both in unconventional relationships, aren’t we, Littlefinger? You with your teenaged orphan date and me with Loras.”

Petyr grinned. “It’s true. But I knew about your taste for men long before you knew about my fascination with redheads.” Petyr toyed with one of Sansa’s stray curls. “And I do  _love_  redheads.”

Sansa blushed.

On ceremony, everyone rose to their feet when Queen Myrcella Baratheon entered the ballroom with her royal Spanish husband. She gave an optimistic speech about the coming of a bright new year, of celebrating with honored guests and setting a tone of peace and prosperity for the times to come. Sansa applauded when appropriate and tried to listen intently, but the hair on the back of her neck stood straight with the haunting feeling of being watched. Sansa glanced to the head table and saw the hateful stare of Cersei Lannister boring into her like knives. She’d nearly forgotten that the Queen Mother would attend.  _And Tywin Lannister too, where is he? Where is Roose Bolton, where’s…_

She felt a hand on her thigh. Sansa nearly jumped until she saw it was Petyr’s hand, brushing his thumb along the feathers of her dress. “You’re with me,” he whispered. “Don't fret.”

Sansa took his hand. She knew she could withstand on her own, but the extra encouragement would keep her afloat for now.

Dinner was served after the queen’s speech. Salmon steaks with hollandaise sauce, puréed pheasant mixed with macaroni and mushrooms, roast turkey and braised chestnuts with pearl onions, woodcock pie and Yorkshire pudding, all among dozens of other dishes Sansa had no name for. Exquisite French wines complimented the meal. Sansa knew she’d never dined so richly in her life, and may never again, so she ate as many different things as she could, trying a bite here and there to taste all the possibilities. She asked Petyr if he knew how to get some of the recipes so she could try making them at home. He only laughed, eyed her fondly, and promised that he would inquire.

Dancing began when the dining ended. Sansa wasn't ready to move around yet, still frozen under the scrutiny of dozens in the room, but Petyr was content to stay by her side. She enjoyed lengthy conversations with the Tyrells. Several members of Parliament who admired her father offered their sympathies, which she appreciated, and Commissioner Jaime Lannister of the London Police came to see her with his deputy, Officer Tarth. Sansa was polite to both of them. Officer Tarth offered such a sincere apology that Sansa was nearly moved to tears. Sansa assured her that she didn’t blame her for her parents’ death, and they shared a hug. Sansa hadn't anticipated being blessed with so many allies.

Over the course of the night, Sansa noticed Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton in the corner of her eye, speaking with the Tyrells when they left the table. But there was still one person she dreaded to find. Ramsay was notably absent. Sansa knew he was in the ballroom somewhere, she could feel him lurking, but she’d yet to see him directly. It wouldn’t be long until he came for her. And he  _would_  come, wouldn't he? The thought alone was horrifying.

A blonde boy rushed to Petyr and tapped him on the shoulder. He whispered something in his ear. Petyr nodded as the boy left. He turned to Sansa grimly, and she knew what he was going to say before he said it. “Cersei and the others wish to speak with me. No doubt about you.” Petyr finished his champagne in a large gulp. “I imagined they’d wait until tomorrow at least, but it seems they’re impatient.”

Sansa felt it. Down her back, like ice.  _He’s here._  She wondered if Petyr could feel it, too.

“Sansa?” He looked at her. “I’d be a fool to tell these people no.”

“I know.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ll be okay.”

“Ramsay will try to speak to you.”

“Let him.” She squared her shoulders to prove herself, even though it felt premature. “It’s like you said. Nothing can happen to me here.”

Petyr held her arms, ever tender. She felt her spine straighten even more. “You’ll be strong without me.”

Sansa nodded. Petyr leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, ignoring the audience around them. He stood, rubbing her shoulder in support, and then he was gone, leaving Sansa exposed and alone under the eyes of a predator.

She knew he was near. Sansa heard his footsteps minutes after Petyr left, before he ever said a word.

“Hello, Sansa.”

She resisted a shudder. Sansa saw Ramsay in her peripheral, sitting down in Petyr’s chair with a conquering smile. She kept her eyes forward and sipped her champagne, back straight, never wilting. Gone were the days when he made her cower.

“You look lovely tonight. A true goddess among the rabble.” He leaned closer to her. “I can’t wait to have you back in my bed.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time.” Sansa refused to look at him. “What do you want?”

“Well, what else would I want?” asked Ramsay with a scoff, as if she should know, and she did. “My beautiful bride. I wonder what you’re wearing under this pretty dress. Lace? Silk?” He smirked. “Nothing?”

Sansa swallowed hard. “I’m not your bride.”

“Oh, come now. Let’s not lie to each other.” Her breath shook when Ramsay’s fingertips grazed her bare arm. “I made my mark on you. And before long, you’ll come back to me. That’s what happens when a master loses his pet.”

Sansa couldn’t will herself to leave, hardwired to freeze and obey when he spoke.  _He can’t hurt me here,_  she thought.  _Move!_  But she couldn’t. Didn’t. Sansa retreated into herself and played dead.

“I trained you,” Ramsay boasted. “Your sister would’ve bitten off my cock when I shoved it in her mouth, but you? You knew better. You learned like the good little lamb you are.”

 _That’s in the past,_  Sansa reminded herself. “I learned enough to run away, too. I’m not going back.” She gathered the courage to face him. His eyes were wide and wild, the way he looked when he was angry and ready to beat her until she bled. “I’m not going to sign over my father's fortune and I’m going home with Littlefinger. Leave me alone.”

“Ah, the ever-dangerous Littlefinger,” mocked Ramsay. “Does he fuck you like I do? Does he make you scream?”

“Never.”

Ramsay laughed. The sound made her sick. “He must not have balls after all! Such a waste, I would love to see how he compares.” He snatched the champagne from her hands and drank it down. “Did he tell you about our little chat in the lift a few days ago?”

“Yes.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap, trying to remain civil and stone-faced. “He put a gun to you and you fell to the floor, like a corpse.”

“That's not the good part though.” Ramsay set the glass on the table. “I told him to bring you back to me. And here you are. Right in my hands.”

 _Don’t panic, he’s just lying to make you afraid._  “He would never do that,” said Sansa. “Even if he did, I’d rather die. You’ve taken nothing from me and you never will.”

Ramsay’s eyes darkened. Instinct told her she would pay for her outburst, but Ramsay was limited, a dog on a leash. He sneered, leaning in so close that she could feel his breath on her face. “Oh, I  _have_  taken from you. You remember when you bled for me that first night? I took that. And I will take again. All your kike daddy’s money, your Stark name, your—”

Sansa stood abruptly. She did not have to hear this, to listen to his sick fantasies. She turned her back. Ramsay spat a hateful command and snatched her by the wrist, so hard it pained her.

Sansa whirled around and slapped him across the face.

The sound echoed. Nearby guests paused to look, staring at the man who’d fallen back on the table, shattering glass and breaking a centerpiece. Sansa’s hand burned, but there had never been an ache so sweet. She met his violent eyes dead-on, watching the bloody corner of his mouth, wanting him to hear every word when she made her intentions known.

“You will  ** _never_** touch me again.”

Ramsay glared, doing all the things he’d done to her and more with his eyes alone, but Sansa would not succumb. She left. Sansa maneuvered through the growing crowd of people and escaped to the open hall, rushing to the blue drawing room and through the open doors. She rounded the first corner and pressed her back to the wall, hand on her chest, trying to steady her heavy breathing.  _In. Out. You’re okay._  Her head fell back, eyes closed. She wanted to cry, but tears never came. There was victory in what she’d done. And though defeat may come again, she was safe within the palace walls. She was safe with Petyr.

Sansa jumped when a figure came around the corner. She feared it was Ramsay and nearly fled, but the golden hair and gown of Queen Myrcella told her otherwise. Sansa was shocked. “I — Your Majesty,” she stuttered, trying to remember manners enough to offer a curtsy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a disturbance, I only—”

“No, no. You’re okay. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Myrcella looked just like her mother, but without a single drop of Cersei’s cruelty. Green eyes warmed with a sympathetic smile. “Leave us,” she told the guards. “Keep the ballroom calm. Mother should be back with Littlefinger soon, but distract the guests with a waltz or something. I’ll be there in a moment.”

A large, dark bodyguard bowed to her command. He whispered for the others to leave, but he remained and stood watch at the entrance to the drawing room. “Areo,” the queen explained. “He doesn’t talk much, but I like that about him.”

Sansa tried to smile. She didn’t know what Myrcella was doing, why she’d come for Sansa at all, but she wasn’t going to refuse the Queen of England a private audience. Myrcella gestured for Sansa to follow her, and the two young women sat down on a plush sofa by the pillars. Sansa wished she could appreciate her surroundings, but adrenaline kept her on edge.

Myrcella placed her hands in her lap. Her posture was all royal. Sansa tried to mimic it, but her hands were still shaking.

“So… forgive me for asking,” said Myrcella, “but are the rumors true? About what Ramsay did…”

Sansa chewed her lip. It was a great crime to lie to a queen. “Yes.”

“People talked about it for months. Parliament was a mess. Cabinet members begged law enforcement to investigate, it was like you disappeared or something. No social media, no public appearances, nothing.” Myrcella frowned. “I can’t have Varys prosecute without evidence, and I can't convince Uncle Jaime to charge Ramsay either. But I can do something. I’m going to tell Ramsay Bolton to leave and he’s no longer welcome in my home, not ever.”

Sansa blinked. “Your Majesty, you don’t have to—”

“I know. But I want to.” Myrcella’s eyes were fiercely protective. “I remember the way Joffrey treated you. He treated me horribly too, and Shireen and Tommen. No one should have to suffer that  _and_  what Ramsay did.” She shook her head. “You didn't deserve any of it.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She remembered Myrcella’s kindness, but this was more than Sansa felt she deserved from a girl she barely knew. Sansa looked down the open hall. A figure was moving toward them, but Sansa didn’t fear; she saw the mockingbird on his chest in the light. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I hope your family won’t be upset.” Sansa turned to Myrcella. “I know they’re friends with the Boltons.”

“Mum and Granddad are. I’m not. To be honest, I think they’re creepy.” Myrcella sighed. “I’m sorry Ramsay said something to you. I’m glad you’re not really dead, too, and please let me know if I can do anything to help. You were nice to me. I never forgot that.” She smiled. “You can call me Myrcella, too. When it’s just us.”

“Thank you.”

Sansa felt awkward. It was strange to be offered friendship so readily, even in confidence by a much-loved queen.

“Oh. And a word of advice.” Myrcella stood from the sofa, all grace and beauty, her sparkling gown making her look like an angel. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, Sansa, but I’ve learned that the best thing you can do to hurt people like Ramsay is to be happy. It’ll haunt him forever. It’ll give him sleepless nights while you sleep soundly, knowing he could never break you. And you deserve to be happy anyway.”

 _I do?_ thought Sansa curiously.  _I deserve to be happy…_

“Sansa,” breathed Petyr when he entered the drawing room. He rushed past the queen as if she wasn’t there at all, taking Sansa’s face in his hands. She could tell he was adding a touch of drama to manipulate Myrcella, but it didn’t bother her. Not when he was at her side again. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Sansa shook her head. Petyr sighed in relief, kissing her forehead for a long time. “I’m sorry I ever left.”

“It’s okay. Business, I understand.” Sansa took his hands, just wanting something to hold on to. She didn’t need Petyr to be her anchor. She’d faced Ramsay alone and triumphed. But having Petyr beside her, her friends and a network of support… it had made all the difference.

“Aw,” fawned Myrcella. “I’m glad you have each other. I should get back, but you can stay in here for as long as you need to. Okay?”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. You are too kind.” Petyr wrapped an arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “Don’t toast to the new year without us.”

“I won’t.” Myrcella turned and left them.

When they were alone, Petyr moved to sit by Sansa’s side. He kept her hands held. “Did he touch you?”

“No.” Sansa sighed. “I mean, yes, but it was nothing. Just my arm.” Petyr began searching her skin for marks. “Not enough to hurt me,” she clarified. “I’m okay. I really am.” She paused. “I was strong without you.”

Petyr looked at her, a mixture of sorrow, doubt and blistering anger, but Sansa knew it wasn’t directed at her. She squeezed his hand. “I’m not afraid of him. He took so much from me, it’s hard to live with, but Ramsay wins if I let it ruin me. I just…” She sadly smiled. “I have to be happy.”

Sansa didn’t know if Petyr truly understood, but he wasn’t calling her foolish, which was a good sign. “Happy, you shall be.” Petyr kissed her cheek. He stood and offered his hand to her. “I don’t believe I’ve had a dance yet. We did come for a party, didn't we?”

Sansa managed a little giggle. She took his hand and walked with him down the open hall, and when they returned to the ballroom, the Boltons were nowhere to be found.

The party didn't last long enough. Sansa spoke with dozens of people, so many that she couldn’t remember their names, and danced with Petyr to six different waltzes. She helped Shae think of names for the coming baby — somehow they hadn't picked one yet — and she and Loras and Renly spent an entire forty-five minutes deep in discussion about fashion and social trends. When the countdown to the new year began, Petyr pulled Sansa close, and they shared a New Year’s kiss despite onlookers who disapproved. And though Sansa was tired, emotionally drained and shaky from her run-in with the devil, she knew she’d never been so blessed.

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**1 JANUARY, 2017**

It was near two in the morning by the time they returned home. Petyr gave Sansa a deep kiss goodnight and retired to his room, and Sansa entered hers, feeling a cocktail of emotions that were hard to swallow. She took off her heels and makeup. She pulled each bobby pin from her hair one by one, placing them on the vanity. Auburn curls rolled down her back like waves. Sansa looked in the mirror and saw herself as she never had before, bold and beautiful, a survivor.

But Sansa didn’t feel victorious. Ramsay had said his words and she’d left them behind, yet there was still emptiness inside her, a part that hadn't been reclaimed.  _The best thing you can do is be happy,_  Myrcella had advised. But what did happiness mean? What would free her from the chains she felt, pulling her farther and farther from what she wanted most?

She checked her phone. Texts from Ros, Olyvar and Mayana sent at midnight cluttered the screen.

_Hey, love! Happy New Year! We’re so grateful to have you in our lives. - R_

_My favorite dress-up doll. I love you. Happy 2017! - O_

_SANSAAAA. Happy new year girl!! treat yoself tonight ;) - M_

Sansa’s chest swelled.  _These people_ _love me,_  she realized, somehow for the first time.  _All four of them._  She remembered Petyr’s hands on her waist, his lingering New Year’s kiss, his praises, his words, and everything he’d done for her. _Of course._

She could take what she wanted. She was strong. And she deserved to be happy.

Sansa picked up her feathered dress and ran from her room, into Petyr’s across the hall. Her heart pounded when she saw him, standing by the fireplace with a hand on the mantle and whiskey in the other, tie and jacket draped over the back of a chair. Petyr looked mystified by her. Sansa found her voice before fear could choke it from her. “Do you ever make New Year’s resolutions?”

Petyr placed his drink on the mantle, eyes pensive. “Not usually.”

“Neither do I. But this year, I want to.” Her voice cracked. She tightened her fists and released them, desperate to find her ground. “I’m sick of this ache in me, this voice in my head telling me I’m broken and untouchable. That I can’t be whole again.”

“Sansa—”

“Let me finish. Please.”

Petyr fell silent.

“I know I’ve come a long way. You and Ros and Olyvar and Mayana, all of you helped me reach where I am now. But I helped myself too, didn’t I? I did what I had to do. And lately I’ve been doing things I  _want_ to do because I have the strength to do them.” Sansa’s throat tensed. She wrung her hands.  _If I can’t hold it together, maybe I don’t want this._  But she did. Oh, she did. With every trembling breath, Sansa wanted. She wiped away the tear that fell. “I deserve to have what I want without being scared.”

Petyr moved around the sofa until he stood across the room, eyes never breaking from hers. “What is it that you want, Sansa? Ask.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Yes you do.” He took a step closer. “I’ve already taught you.”

 _That look,_  Sansa thought. His eyes could burn a hole in her if she weren’t already on fire. She forced her hands apart and kept them at her sides. “I want to feel it,” she said quietly. “What it’s supposed to be like. Being with someone.”

“That’s not specific enough.” Petyr’s voice had lowered, barely audible. He stepped around her, close enough to reach, but resisting. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want…” Sansa shuddered when his fingers brushed along her back, taking her hair and twining it between his fingers. “I want to be touched.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“By who?” Sansa felt him lift her hair from her back, heard Petyr kiss her curls. “I can’t grant your wish if you don’t tell me.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She knew what he wanted to hear, though. Something vulgar, direct, but Sansa was neither of those things. He gripped her waist and pulled her against him, brushing his lips on her ear, making her sigh. “Don’t be shy, sweetling. Tell me.”

She turned in his grasp. Petyr leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him, her hand at the center of his chest. She could feel him pushing against her. “You know what I want.”

Petyr shook his head. “I am a selfish man, Sansa. Thief, schemer, murderer.” He slid his hand up her back, bringing her closer, their faces inches apart. “Be careful what you ask for. I’m not the sort of man to have what he wants only once, or let go of what he craves.”

He leaned in. For half a heartbeat Sansa yielded, but she pushed against Petyr again, ignoring his noise of frustration. “I need you to hear me,” she said. “Please, Petyr. Please look at me.”

His heated gaze lifted from her lips to her eyes. Petyr was confused, if a bit aggrieved, but Sansa couldn’t surrender until he understood. “I don’t want this because I’m attracted to you or because you’ve touched me before. I want it because of who you are. A caretaker who’s been good to me. I feel safe with you. I want  _you._ ”

Grey-green eyes softened. She’d tamed Petyr’s fire, melted him, turned him to a pool of liquid flame. There was pain in him, too. A sadness she couldn’t ignore. “I am not a good man, Sansa. You’ve read me wrong.”

“No,” she said. “I think I’m the first person to read you right.”

Petyr broke the tension with a sudden, bruising kiss.

It was already different. Better, sweeter. Sansa’s skin prickled when his hands rose to touch her, aged and soft and everywhere she needed him. He unhooked the back of her feathered gown in haste, pushing it down her body, unclasping her bra to cup her breasts in eager palms. Sansa hummed when he kissed down her neck, hungry, tasting her as though he was a man starved. Sansa pulled his shirt from where it tucked into his slacks, working at the buttons with hands that didn’t tremble. Her movements were deft and sure, certain in what she wanted, solid in her decision to decide.

Petyr was not.

His breath began to shake. His hands stopped their caresses to freeze when she unmade his shirt. Petyr buried his face in her neck and kissed her there, hiding, and his muscles tensed when Sansa unhooked the final button. “Are you okay?” she asked meekly. “Am I doing something wrong?”

Petyr laughed. The sound was bitter and harsh, and it cut her. “You’ve done nothing wrong.” He pushed her hands away and shrugged off the garment, pulling his undershirt over his head to drop it to the floor.

By firelight, Sansa saw it. The gash in the center of his chest, dark, deep, old.  _Uncle Brandon’s knife._  Sansa touched it gently. How many years had he carried the wound and all it stood for? And there were others too, scars from blades and brawls, silver wisps of drug abuse in the crook of his left arm. Sansa didn’t move. His hands rested on her waist, holding tight as though he feared she’d leave. “Not the man you might have hoped for,” he said with a grin. A lie. “Ignore them.”

But Sansa remained still. She traced the deepest mark with her fingertips, not falling for the mask Petyr used to defend himself. It would not work with her. Sansa pulled away to look into his eyes. “You are more than your scars.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. His hands tightened around her. Sansa’s words of love hurt him more than any injury he’d sustained, but she knew how to soothe him. She slipped her fingers in his hair and kissed his parted lips. She tasted his tongue when he held her close, and their bare chests together sparked encouragement. Sansa was desperate for him. Desire pooled between her legs with more urgency than she’d felt before, made wilder by the caresses he so willingly gave. Sansa shuddered when he slipped his hand down her stomach and beneath the lace, touching her where she throbbed. Petyr circled her center and repeated the motion when she whimpered aloud. He kissed her breasts and sucked at the peaks, and Sansa had to reach back for the end table to keep from falling over. His skin on hers brought an odd sense of safety, a comfort deep down. Petyr's fingers never entered her, only tormented, ensuring she was ready until Sansa begged him.  _“Petyr,”_  she moaned. His name alone told him what she wanted. Petyr removed his hand from between her legs, sucking the taste of her from his fingers. “Bed,” he told her. “On your back, facing me.” He kissed her as though sealing a pact.

Sansa walked with him until the backs of her legs hit Petyr's bed, and she broke their kiss to crawl to the center of his mattress. She heard him unbuckle his belt. Sansa laid down on her back and stared at the canopy above her. Fear returned, unbidden. He stripped her of the lace and made her bare. Petyr moved on top of her and settled between her legs, and Sansa could  _feel_  him, hard and heavy against her inner thigh. She whimpered in anticipation and dread. Petyr touched her chin and directed her gaze to his.

“Sansa,” he said, voice tense and strained. “I won’t be cruel to you.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath. “I think I just need a moment.”

“Take as many as you need.” Petyr kissed her cheek, adjusting his knees to a more comfortable position. Sansa felt secure when he started petting the top of her head, softly, his thumb brushing her hairline. “When you were taken to the hospital, the day after you came to me, did the doctors offer you birth control?”

Sansa nodded. “I’ve been on the pill.”

“Do you still want me to use a condom?”

She smiled a bit.  _Selfish,_  she thought.  _Sure._  “You don’t have to.” Sansa’s fingertips grazed his throat, her whole body wired to touch him, undoubtedly of his own making. “It’s not going to hurt, is it?”

Petyr shook his head. “I will be gentle.”

Sansa believed him. She wanted to enjoy this like all the other women she’d known, like her mother, like Jeyne, like Ros. But when Petyr reached between them and pressed the tip of his cock to her entrance, Sansa clenched her eyes shut and gripped the sheets, afraid. “Shhh,” soothed Petyr. “Relax, my love.” He kissed her cheek and her jaw and her neck, mustache tickling her skin, and he moved the head of him slowly along the sopping line of her sex. “You’re with me, Sansa. I will take care of you.”

Of course he would. Had he not already? Sansa opened her eyes. After a few moments, she nodded.

“Hold on to me. Put your arms around my shoulders and breathe.”

Sansa did as she was told. Petyr repositioned himself and, unhurried, he entered her.

The pressure was uncomfortably familiar, but there wasn’t any pain. Sansa bit down hard on her lip. Petyr continued to kiss her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders, and Sansa stayed clinging to him when he pulled out. His next thrust was slow. Testing her limits, her comfort, and when he pushed in again Sansa wasn’t sure if she wanted to continue.

On the fourth movement, she felt the change. Small at first, a flicker of something that could be, maybe, if she allowed it to happen. But it grew. With every inch of friction, Sansa blossomed with heat and ease and until she could finally relax. Petyr brushed his lips against hers and smiled when she moaned into his mouth. “There you are,” he hissed. “Such a brave girl.”

Petyr set a lazy rhythm inside her that sent Sansa into a series of sighs and whimpers, focused solely on the feeling. Memories of fear were knocked away like dominoes under Petyr’s fist, and Sansa craved every second of the fallout. She hummed when he kissed her. The taste of mint in his mouth became the taste in hers, and she kept her arms around his neck to pull him near.

Petyr pushed faster with her approval. Sansa crossed her ankles behind his back and slipped her fingers in his hair, kissing the patch of gray, the wrinkles near his eyes when he smiled. She felt him strike her deepest point and Sansa cried out, unable to contain her sounds, just the way Petyr liked it. He praised her for her strength. Told her how  _fucking tight_  she was, how perfect, how warm and soft and beautiful, and every word of devotion was felt. Sansa heard the slap of skin and Petyr’s ragged breathing, grunts mixed with her desperate whines and wet sounds of motion. Her words added to them. She sighed his name. She pleaded for more because she wanted it, and when he obliged, Sansa nearly cursed to the ceiling.

“Do you want me to stop?”

 _“Yes,”_  she moaned. “I-I mean no, no, don’t stop.”

Petyr chuckled darkly. “I liked that first answer better.” He rammed into her hard, and Sansa wailed with delight. “Say it again.”

_“Yes.”_

Petyr repeated the motion. “Again.”

Sansa laughed, out of breath, but a cry wasn’t far from her lips when he pushed inside her as far as he could. Petyr smirked as she writhed beneath him.

“Say it,” he demanded. “I want to hear you.”

Petyr struck her depth again. His pace was relentless. Sansa’s muscles tightened on the brink, their foreheads together, and her mind was lost entirely. “Please,” she begged, “Petyr, please,  _please._ _”_

 _“Fuck,”_ he growled, taking a fistful of her hair and locking her gaze to his. “There’s my good girl. Beautiful girl.” Petyr sped his thrusts until he was fucking her out of her mind, pumping into a body she’d freely offered. Sansa clung to his shoulders, ready to fall and begging him to help her there. Petyr reached where they were joined and rubbed her clit until Sansa saw stars. Climax swallowed her into space and Sansa reeled under the force, gripping his hair, head thrown back to cry out as he kissed her throat. Her thighs shook and she’d nearly screamed by the time the high had fallen, her world so thoroughly rocked that she was sure it would never be stable again. She held Petyr close and smiled when he moaned her name like a prayer, _“Sansa,”_  releasing himself inside of her and claiming her as his.

His face stayed buried in the crook of her neck. They lay there, still one, holding each other in showers of kisses and breathlessness. Sansa felt so loved she could cry. Hearing sobs, she realized she  _was_  crying, hot tears spilling down her temples. Petyr lifted his head to look at her. “I’m okay,” she managed, and Sansa laughed, wiping her face. “I’m sorry. I’m just happy.” She sniffled. “I never thought I could have this, like this. Thank you.” Sansa pulled him down for a passionate kiss. He returned it tenfold. His hands roamed her body, little touches of tenderness that spoke words Petyr had trouble saying on his own. But Sansa didn’t mind. She knew his heart now, no matter how he tried to hide it.

Petyr pulled out of her, reaching for his trousers on the floor to wipe them both clean. He guided Sansa into his arms when he laid on his back to rest. She curled up to him as close as she could be, head on his chest, holding him as he held her. Sansa didn’t know how much time had passed before she fell asleep, but she hoped that one day, it would slow. Ramsay wouldn’t matter anymore. Not the Lannisters, not a fortune, or the ghosts of the dead she’d left behind.

One day, she could be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * = not a youtube link!! but this song is the best sansa/ramsay thing to ever happen so you should listen anyway  
> :') my kids :') they finally did it  
> WOW so like 800 things: I am in love with this chapter. I worked a ton on it and I'm pleased with the outcome. Sansa is so strong and JUST, THIS IS HUGE FOR HER, SHE BLOOOOOOMED (can you believe it took me 13 chapters to get here?? jesus)  
> CAN WE TALK ABOUT BAD BLOOD SANSA FOR A MINUTE THO BC DAMN. #GOALS. There is so much to love here omg  
> I really hate Petyr aslgjakgljaska writing this smut had me shouting "GROSS" at random intervals and gagging, god he's a freak, but I can't take the daddy kink out of him without sacrificing his character so here we are ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> ohhhhhh my goodness y'all this chapter is my LIFE. And here we go, further into Plot Town. if you're looking forward to more dirty sin, chapter 16 is probably the most ~Sinful chapter of the whole story, and that's right around the corner. Get ready!  
> As always, I appreciate all the love and support from my FANTASTIC readers, and I'll see you on Saturday, lovelies!! I hope the smut passed expectation. :')  
>  **EDIT:** I don't know how many of you actually listen to the soundtrack options that I give, but if there's ever an important song in this fic, it's Trouble. Go listen. I've had this song on repeat since the fic started, WAITING to write their first time together because this song is just so perfect for it. SO THERE.  
>  **EDIT #2:** The day this chapter posted is November 5th! Petyr's birthday! How cool is that. ❤  
>  **EDIT #3:** Myrcella's advice to Sansa is inspired by the Elizabeth Smart story. You can watch a bit about that [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jL-y1ypUMk) if you're interested (but trigger warnings for rape mention, of course). Elizabeth Smart has been a huge personal inspiration for me, and for Sansa's development in this story.


	14. Aggressive Factor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choice:**   
>  [[if you want blood (you've got it); ac/dc](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EWqTym2cQU)]   
> 

  
**1 JANUARY, 2017**

Cereal crunched between her teeth. Arya hated Cheerios and milk, but the bald man didn’t have anything better in his kitchen, barely stocked as it was. Arya still wanted something more than  _baby_  food to eat. She sat on a barstool and swung her legs while Jon rewound the news coverage of the queen’s gala they’d been watching all morning. “Stop,” said Arya. “She’s right there. Hit play again.”

Jon resumed the recording. Sansa looked so elegant that Arya almost didn’t recognize her, dressed in a gown of black feathers with huge diamond earrings that sparkled under flashing lights. _She looks like a princess,_ thought Arya. Sansa walked on the arm of a stranger, ignoring reporters, never saying a word. 

Despite everything, Arya was thrilled to see Sansa alive.

“She looks healthy,” commented Jon, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Doesn’t look like she’s being mistreated.”

“That doesn’t mean crap. Joffrey never left marks people could see when he hit her, remember?” She pointed to the remote. “Go back to the morning news. I wanna see if they’re talking about it.”

Jon changed the channel. A reporter stood in front of the gates of Buckingham Palace, and the headline read, “SANSA STARK: ALIVE.”

_“At the queen’s ball yesterday evening, Sansa Stark, daughter of the late Lord Eddard Stark, was seen alive for the first time in nearly three months. The teen went missing after an apparent abduction from the home of her legal guardian, Roose Bolton. However, new reports suggest that instead of kidnapping, Sansa Stark_ _fled the Bolton property after suffering sexual abuse from Roose Bolton’s son, Ramsay. To further suspicion, Her Majesty has banned the Boltons from Buckingham Palace and personally pushed through a restraining order against them on Sansa’s behalf. Miss Stark has yet to come forward for comment. At this time, she will not be returning to Bolton custody, but Deputy Commissioner Tarth has assured the public of her safety.”_

The screen switched to footage from a press conference held an hour ago. Brienne Tarth, tall and fearless, stood fierce in Sansa’s defense. _“Lord Eddard Stark was an example to us all,”_  said Brienne at the podium. _“As a nation, we are all relieved to know that his daughter has been found. In honor of the respect I held for Lord Stark, as well as his wife Catelyn, I will continue to look after and protect Sansa until she no longer has need of police. It is the least I can do after all her father accomplished for law enforcement and the judicial system._

 _“As of this moment, Ramsay Bolton is our primary person of interest in the ongoing investigation of Sansa’s abuse. Captive for three months, she escaped, and was protected by a friend of the family until deciding to return to the public eye on New Year’s Eve. No charges are currently being pressed against the Boltons, but given the recent unveiling of Secretary Frey’s sex trafficking ring and the Frey-Bolton partnership, I am personally taking charge of the investigation and will continue to look for connections to put_ all _guilty parties behind bars. Sansa will remain in the care of her current guardian, and neither I nor Commissioner Lannister feel it appropriate to force her return to the Bolton home regardless of Roose’s title as her legal caretaker. Sansa has asked to be left in peace. Remember that she is still young, a teenage girl and a child by the law, and she deserves her hard-earned privacy. Thank you.”_

Arya beamed as Brienne stepped down from the podium. She turned to Jon with a cocky shake of her shoulders. “See? I told you she was cool.”

The news switched to the weather forecast. Jon turned it off and poured himself some water. “When do you think Varys is gonna come by? He said he’d tell us about the gala. I bet he saw Sansa, talked to her.”

Arya took a bite of cereal. “I don’t know. He better come by soon or I’ll smack him.”

“Don’t,” scorned Jon. “He’s takin’ us in, you don’t get to just threaten ‘im.”

“Why not? He threatened us. And I liked that barn.” Arya wondered if the little rat family had eaten the cheese she’d left behind.

“I didn’t,” said Jon. “It was cold.  _Really_  cold. I’m used to the desert.” Jon shuddered just thinking about it. “Don’t you like wakin’ up in a warm bed?”

“I don’t know.” In truth, Arya had stopped caring about comfort long ago. “It’s nice I guess.”

Ghost barked wildly outside, in the small, fenced backyard he’d claimed as his own. Arya slipped off the stool to shush him. “Ghost!” she called after opening the slider. “Hey boy! C’mere!” The canine bolted into the house, wagging his tail and yipping. “Ghost,” Jon commanded. “No bark. Sit.”

Ghost did as he was told. Arya rolled her eyes — she could never get the dog to obey any of her commands — and sat on the stool to keep eating. “I bet Varys is here.”

Just in case, Jon grabbed his gun from the counter and cocked it ready. He peered through the peephole in the front door. “What the hell?”

“It’s me,” called Varys from outside. “Forgive the disguise.”

 _Disguise?_  Arya stretched out her neck to see down the entryway. Jon opened the door and Varys stepped inside, wearing a long trench coat and hat, sporting a fake mustache and smelling like cigarettes. He peeled the mustache off his upper lip. “I do hate these things,” said Varys. “How Littlefinger manages an actual mustache, I’ll never know.”

Arya scrunched her nose. “Why are you dressed so weird?”

“Being a master of disguise has its uses, my dear. I’ve learned more valuable information this way than I can remember.” Varys removed his hat and coat, but not before pulling a credit card from his pocket, which he handed to Jon. “For you. Food, a used car, anything you need. But try to stay inside as much as possible. The Lannisters are still looking for you and show no sign of abandoning their pursuit.”

“I understand.” Jon examined the card before pocketing it in his jeans. “Thank you, sir. I’ll repay you as soon as I can.”

“No need.” Varys folded his hands and stepped further into the simple home, smiling when he saw Arya. “Do you like the house? I bought it a few years ago. Impeccable location. Not a suspicious neighborhood, secluded enough to have important guests without unwanted listeners.”

“It’s alright.” Arya kept a skeptical eye when he passed her. “Did you see Sansa at the gala? You said you’d tell us.”

“You certainly don’t waste time, do you?” Varys gestured to the living room, to the beige couch and armchairs. “Have a seat.”

The three of them settled in for discussion. Jon sat on the couch. Arya sat beside him with her bowl of cereal, propping up her feet on the coffee table’s edge. Varys took one of the armchairs, well-postured. Arya read his body language for signs of a liar.

“Have you seen the news this morning?” Varys asked.

“Yeah. We saw Sansa at the palace in a fancy dress, but she was with some older guy.” Arya rested her bowl on her thighs. “Like, a  _much_ older guy.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, he is a part of the problem.” Varys reached for the remote and turned on the telly. He scrolled through the recently watched programs as though he knew Arya and Jon had recorded the broadcast, and pressed play. He paused on a frame of Sansa and her date. “That man is called Littlefinger. He’s one of the most dangerous men in Europe, and if I hadn’t found you when I did, I’m sure he would have come for you.”

Varys pointed to the black-and-gray-haired stranger on Sansa’s arm. He didn’t look particularly dangerous to Arya, and she squinted to find anything that stood out. “He’s just some guy,” she concluded. “The news said he was a friend of the family, but I don’t remember him. Why does he have Sansa?”

“She chose him. A poor choice, but she had no way of knowing. Your sister called him the night she fled the Boltons and he came to retrieve her. She’s been in his care ever since.”

“Why is he a bad choice?” asked Jon. Varys gave him a matter-of-fact look. “I just want to know, is all. She seemed happy from what I saw.”

“I’m sure she believes that she is.” Varys pulled a few photographs from his suit jacket and handed them to Arya. “Littlefinger is a master manipulator. He’s likely telling her whatever she wants to hear to keep her at his side.”

“Why do they call him ‘Littlefinger’?” Arya scanned every picture of Sansa to look for bruises or signs of abuse. She found none, but there were other ways to hurt a girl. Secret ways. “Is it some kind of weird nickname?”

“Yes. Given to him by your Uncle Edmure.”

Arya looked up from the photos, baffled.

“Petyr Baelish is his true name. He was raised with your mother, aunt and uncle in Ireland until he was removed from the home in 1989. He stayed two weeks in a hospital after a serious injury, and then…” Varys shrugged. “I don’t know. Nobody knows where he went, until he returned to London in 2001 and began taking over Parliament bit by bit. Word has it that he put America in his pocket before he returned. The Clinton family seems to know him well. But outside of that, all my leads are dead ends.”

Arya remembered her mother mentioning another sibling, an estranged foster brother she’d wanted to reconnect with, but Arya never thought much of it. Until now. “He’s not acting like an uncle,” she said. “He’s being… touchy.” She went through the pictures again. Littlefinger’s hand on Sansa’s back, her arm, her cheek, her waist. Far too close for pseudo-family.

“They were worse in person, believe me.” Varys motioned to the photographs. “Littlefinger has an irritating need to be physical with people, especially young women. It seems that Sansa has become his new favorite.”

Arya made a gagging noise. She didn’t like this ‘Littlefinger’, and she wanted her sister back. “When can we get her?”

Varys pressed play on the recording. Arya watched Littlefinger kiss Sansa’s hand before they entered Buckingham Palace, out of sight. “Not for some time. Littlefinger keeps a tight hold on her.”

“She doesn’t look hurt, though.” Jon took the pictures from Arya’s hands to look through them. “I know Sansa. I watched her with Joffrey. She gets weirdly polite when she’s scared, but you can still see fear in her eyes.” He pulled a photo of Sansa dining with Littlefinger from the back of the pile. She was beaming when he pressed a kiss to her cheek, his arm around her shoulder. “She looks happy. Even if he does have ulterior motives, he’s not hurting her. That’s not Sansa’s ‘hurt’ face.”

“But she’s not safe,” pointed Arya.

“Her physical well-being was my biggest concern. Aren’t you at least a little relieved?”

“No.” Arya snatched the picture from him. “He’s creepy.”

"You’re not listening,” groaned Jon. “You think after dealing with a guy like Ramsay, Sansa wouldn’t know a creep when she saw one? She’s not afraid of this person.” He pointed to Sansa’s smile on the page. “She’s safe. She’s  _been_  safe. Compared to what she was before, at least.”

Arya quirked her mouth to the side. She didn’t want to admit that Jon was right, so she shoved the pictures in his hands and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why can’t I just march up to this guy’s door? You know where he lives, right?”

Varys shook his head. “I’m afraid it isn’t so simple. Littlefinger is a dangerous man, and he does not take the theft of his possessions lightly.”

“My  _sister_  is no one’s  _possession._ ” Arya scowled. “I don’t care what mustache-guy thinks.”

“Oh, you should.” Varys scratched Ghost behind the ear, his frown poorly masked. “Littlefinger has done terrible things. Not caring what he thinks would be your first mistake. For now, it is simply best to leave Sansa where she is until I can undermine Littlefinger enough to bring her to safety. Or perhaps, if there’s no other choice, work with him to come to some sort of mutual conclusion.” Varys sighed. “As much as I admire and despise Littlefinger, I don’t want to make your sister unhappy. There are few who have suffered more than she has.”

Arya strongly disliked the idea of teaming up with Littlefinger, let alone having to be around him at all, but something in her gut told her it was inevitable. She finished her cereal and gulped down the milk while Jon and Varys talked about the rules of staying incognito. She wasn't interested in listening, more focused on the prospect of having to  _wait_  to see Sansa again. All because of some freak with a clear ego problem.  _I don’t like him. How could she?_

“If there’s nothing else, I have a proposition for you.” Varys folded his hands in his lap. “One I think you’ll be interested in.”

“Does it involve actually doing something?” groaned Arya. “I’m sick of being cooped up in this house.”

“Not quite.” Varys stood from the couch and he waved for them to follow him. “I have something to show you.”

Arya set her bowl on the table. She passed Jon, too curious to stay behind, and peered into the closet Varys pointed to. “Behind these coats is a small door,” he told her. “Perhaps you'll find something interesting inside.”

She pushed past hanging jackets and tapestries, reaching to feel the back wall until she touched a handle. “Found it!” Arya turned the knob and scooted through with her brother behind her. The door led to a little room with two chairs and a table, both facing the glass that Arya knew to be a mirror on the other side. A perfect view of the living room stood before her.

“A one-way mirror,” said Jon in disbelief. “You sneaky bastard.”

“Thank you,” called Varys from the closet’s entrance. “If you wish, you and your canine friend can listen to my conversation with Cersei Lannister when she visits in an hour.”

“Cersei?  _Queen_  Cersei? Here?” Ghost began to growl, feeling Arya’s tension. “But what if she finds us?”

“She won’t.” Arya watched Varys grin through the small hole between jackets. “May I close this door? In case she comes early.”

Brother and sister shared a look. Jon shrugged as if to say,  _why not?_  Arya let Varys lock them in his secret room with Ghost. Together, they waited. They played cards with a deck they’d found in a drawer, engaged in a pun battle and told jokes. But an hour later, as promised, a knock came at the front door that Varys was quick to answer. Arya scrambled to her feet. She left Ghost on the floor where she'd been petting him, eyes fixed on the living room through the one-way glass.

Cersei Lannister entered the living room with Gregor Clegane. Seeing the queen again after so many years brought back awful memories, and Arya gritted her teeth to fight them. “Don’t,” said Jon, holding her shoulder to keep her from moving. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Your Grace,” greeted Varys with a generous bow. “I’m glad you could come all this way to meet.”

Cersei dragged her fingertips along the top of the kitchen counter, inspecting it for dust. “Your home is so… quaint.”

“I prefer to spend my wealth in other places.” He motioned for her to sit on the sofa by the window, and she did, posture straight as any queen’s should be. Arya hated how regal Cersei looked, even here, where she didn’t have to try. “I suppose we should get straight to business,” said Varys. “I can’t imagine the Queen Mother has much time on her hands these days. Especially with your security now a great concern.”

“Yes, well. Hopefully it won’t be for long.” Cersei folded her hands in her lap. “We still don’t know who hired Harrold Hardyng. When my father ordered his agents to raid the location Littlefinger gave us, the hitman was already dead. There was nothing at the scene to determine who gave him the orders. The culprit is still at large.”

 _Littlefinger gave them?_  thought Arya.  _Germanboy said he’d met a pretty Jewish girl. That had to be Sansa._

Varys chuckled. “I don’t think you will ever find the head of the snake if you keep looking at its tail, Your Grace. Littlefinger will be no help to you now that Sansa Stark is his.”

Arya watched Cersei’s hands tighten. “The little wretch managed to convince my father it was for everyone’s benefit to have Sansa under his wing, but I don’t buy it. His silver tongue doesn’t charm me, and Roose’s son is positively enraged. Someone needs to leash him before he does something dangerous.”

 _He’s already done that,_  Arya thought bitterly. She hated that Sansa meant nothing to Queen Cersei, a girl who would’ve been her daughter-in-law once upon a time.

“More dangerous than abusing her in the first place?” asked Varys.

_Good. Thank you._

“You’ve always been a soft one.” Cersei crossed one leg over the other, leaning back. “Are you working with Littlefinger?”

“I would sooner wed a goat,” said Varys.

“So you deny any involvement in covering up Sansa’s location?”

Varys took her interrogation with grace. Arya wondered how good he was at playing this game, to stay calm around an angry Lannister. “I will align myself with whomever I must to protect young girls.”

The corner of Cersei’s mouth twitched in a mocking smile. “Having been a teenage girl yourself helps with that sentiment., I imagine.”

“On the contrary, Your Grace. It’s rather irrelevant. After all, you were one as well, and look at what you’ve allowed to happen.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Cersei’s smile fell. “Sansa’s suffering, the suffering of the girl who helped Tyrion murder my son, your king, is of no concern to me.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I meant no offense.” Varys nodded politely. Even Arya was nearly convinced. “Why did you come to speak to me today? Clearly we have a fundamental difference of opinion on the Stark girl.” Varys leaned forward. “I am loyal to the crown as I have always been, but I cannot encourage Sansa’s return to Roose Bolton. Even if I did, Littlefinger would never agree to it, no matter how much you tempt him. You saw them at Myrcella’s ball. Manipulation though it may be, he is enamored by her.”

Cersei sighed. “Yes, it was quite disturbing. But I want to know  _why_ she is so important to him. I want his every move, his intentions with Sansa, his true motivations. There’s something he’s hiding and I will discover it.”

Varys outright laughed. “If I knew Littlefinger’s true motivations, I’d be the most wanted man in the world. Perhaps you would be better suited speaking to one of his closest employees?”

“Impossible. They’re loyal to a fault.” Cersei stood from the couch. “Littlefinger is becoming an enormous grievance to me, but Father insists he still has his uses. I’d much rather eliminate him and be done with it, but since I can’t, I’m going to hire you.” She held out her hand. Gregor Clegane offered her a piece of paper, which she handed to Varys. “You’re going to spy on him. You will watch him. Tell me everything you learn, and your reward will increase.”

Varys shifted in his seat. He looked like he was battling with his mind, struggling to reach a decision, but he came to it quickly. “I will do what I can. If I discover something useful, you’ll be the first to know.” He took the paper from Cersei. The queen made for the entryway, already finished with what she came for, and Arya was torn between wanting to strangle her or push her out the door. Jon tightened his grip on her shoulder. Cersei and Varys exchanged brief goodbyes, but Varys called to her before she left. “Your Grace,” he said. “Might I ask just one question?”

“Of course.” Arya peered through the farthest side of the mirror to watch them.

“I was wondering something, if you don’t mind an answer.” Varys stepped closer to her. “That entire time, all three months of Sansa Stark’s imprisonment, did you know what Ramsay was doing to her?” He paused. “Did you encourage it?”

Arya steeled her jaw. She observed Cersei’s reaction, from the threatening stare that gauged Varys to the bitter smile of her conclusion. “I knew that Roose Bolton would supply me with a multimillion pound fortune that would provide a future for my family name. The Lannister name. Sansa Stark was the weakest link, a murderer, and she was the key. I would butcher any man who so much as thought about harming Myrcella in the ways Ramsay likes, but before you play your guilt card, Varys, consider this.” Cersei turned her head to the mountain behind her. Gregor grabbed Varys by the throat on her unspoken command, thrusting him hard against the wall. Varys yelped. “I don’t fear the wrath of Ned Stark’s ghost, and neither do I fear  _you._ ”

After a long minute, long enough to ensure her point was received, Cersei nodded to Gregor who let Varys drop to his feet. Varys rubbed his throat and stared out the open door, watching the queen enter a car and ride away, but Arya didn’t feel whatever uncertainty plagued him. She cracked her knuckles at her sides, logging the memory of Cersei’s confidence deep in her mind where she kept all her vengeance hidden.

“Cersei doesn’t fear Ned Stark’s ghost?” muttered Arya with a scowl. “She should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooo shit's gettin' REAL  
> This chapter was like, virtually impossible to write. I already knew all of this plot stuff so it seems so boring to me, but from a reader's POV I hope it's good enough!  
> I'm not sure if you expected a Petyr chapter or not. Surprise! I've broken the pattern of POV's now. The plot's too important to stay in focus that way. But the next two chapters are SINFUL so you won't be disappointed. I just had to bring Arya up to speed and show a little bit of Cersei's character. And Varys's. Good shit.  
> mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm not much else to say here! See ya Saturday lovelies! xx  
> Oh, and to all my fellow Americans out there, **stay safe.** We'll get through this. I promise.


	15. Freezeout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[clair de lune; claude debussy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fvo_iOuSck)] ◆ [[clique; kanye west, jay-z, big sean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FbeggfRBbds)] ◆ [[suffer - remix; charlie puth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GS3toUABAIY)]   
> 

  
**5 JANUARY, 2017**

Clouds hung heavy on a dour winter morning. Petyr felt useless. A mockingbird without a flight path. He pressed the piano keys with effortless grace, but his mind was a tangle of tension, even through the music.

Ramsay’s rebound had begun. Since the gala, Sansa had received threats from over a dozen different numbers, so many that Petyr forced her to shut off her phone. Then the posts began. Any social media platform, whatever means Ramsay could use, he exercised them all to torment Sansa and whoever she held dear.

The worst threat had come to Sansa’s email. Received the night before, Sansa had opened a message from her best friend Jeyne, thinking it was a link to something funny to cheer her up. Instead, she was directed to a video of herself in a room with white sheets and iron bars, and the trauma Ramsay wrought within.

The damage was exhaustive. Sansa wept. She’d wretched up what little dinner she ate in the bathroom sink and spoke to no one, and Petyr could give no comfort to her. He’d made the mistake of trying. Even a caress was too much, so Petyr held her until she slept and didn’t move until Ros came to watch over her. He’d found no rest of his own. All he wanted to do was play, hoping music would keep him focused on the task ahead.

Bare feet padded across the wood floor. Petyr drew in a deep breath when he felt Sansa behind him. She wrapped her arms loosely around his shoulders, her chin in the crook of his neck. Petyr’s anger thawed under the warmth of her touch. He stopped playing for a moment to revel in her, in all that she was, before gathering himself enough to move through the end of the song. When Petyr was finished, the final note lingered in the air while Sansa held him.

They were silent for a time. Petyr closed the piano as Sansa nuzzled his ear. He shut his eyes to focus on the feeling. She squeezed him tight. An apology, but she had nothing to apologize for. Petyr opened his eyes and moved her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “He needs to die, Sansa.” He brushed his thumb over her skin. “Soon.”

“I know.” Sansa rested her head against his.

“I’ve taught you all you need to know. You’re ready.” Petyr turned on the piano bench, his legs on either side of her. Sansa kept her arms around him, toying with the gray hair at his temples that she loved so much. She didn’t seem shocked or upset; if anything, she expected this, and he was glad she did. “Unless you don’t want to participate. I will gladly take care of him myself.”

Sansa frowned. Petyr knew she had religious beliefs, but offing Ramsay was more important than mediocre commandments from an ancient book. This was the difference between tranquility and fear. Success and failure. Petyr would defy any god for Sansa’s peace of mind.

“I want to be there,” she concluded. “I feel like I have to be.” Sansa looked into his eyes. “Ramsay’s too dangerous to be left alive, and I have to be a part of it.”

Petyr didn’t hide how pleased he was. She had learned so well. “Go and get dressed, then. We’re having guests.” He reached up to touch her cheek. “I need to invite the necessary parties over for tea.”

“A meeting? Here?”

He nodded. “I’m not letting you leave the house until Ramsay has been detained. Today, we plan. Tomorrow, we act.”

Sansa took a slow breath. “Okay.”

Petyr rubbed her thigh before patting it in encouragement. “Go. Breakfast will be ready by the time you’re done.”

She did as he asked. Petyr watched her cross the room, wearing one of his shirts and flannel pajamas, and admired her from a distance until she stopped and turned. “Petyr?”

“Yes?” He rose to his feet.

“Could we… try again? Tonight.” Sansa wrung her hands. “Last night, I wanted to, but with what happened and the video, I just… broke down. But I still want to.” She looked up at him. “It makes me feel safe.”

Petyr grinned. He was delighted to hear that Sansa craved him as he craved her, but now wasn’t the time for a proposition. “You don’t have to ask. As always, my love, I am yours.”

Sansa smiled and continued up the entranceway stairs.

Petyr walked to the kitchen. Breathing deep, he steepled his fingers under his chin and began to pace. Mayana and Olyvar sat at the dining room table, surrounded by paperwork and two open laptops while Ros cooked breakfast. None of them were surprised by Petyr’s entrance. Mayana began typing when he spoke. “Invite Tyrell.”

“Good choice,” said Olyvar. “Who else?”

“The Deputy Commissioner. Bella, Brianna, something.”

 _“Brienne,”_  groaned Mayana. “You’ve met the woman twice, Pete. For God’s sake, remember her name.”

Petyr waved a dismissive hand. “Invite her. Not Jaime Lannister, though, I don’t want Cersei to suspect something.”

Olyvar held out his hands. Petyr pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it to his employee across the room, continuing to pace. “The Greyjoy girl,” he said. “Have we heard from her?”

“She said that she’s been unable to reach her brother,” Olyvar replied. “Something about ‘Reek’? I didn’t quite understand her accent.”

“Reek,” Ros added from the stove. She paused her stirring. “Theon kept calling himself that at The Mockingbird the other day, when Ramsay brought by that dead pig.”

“A code?” Mayana guessed.

“I have no idea.” Petyr pushed out a breath and stopped walking, resting his hands on his hips. “Is Miss Greyjoy back in Norway?”

“Yeah.”

“See that she stays there. Invite Tyrion here, too, I want word of this meeting to reach Varys. Give him a bone to chew on.”

“You sure about that?” asked Mayana. “I mean… you know. With _them,_  and all.”

All three of his employees stared at him. Petyr knew how they felt about hiding Sansa’s siblings from her, but they’d confessed to trust him, so he ignored Mayana’s jab. “I don’t fear a fifteen-year-old and a wounded soldier.” He pointed to Olyvar and his phone. “Send the texts. I want everyone here, don’t take excuses.” He grabbed a plate of pancakes when Ros finished cooking and sat down at the dining room table. Sansa joined him, dressed in black leggings and an oversized sweater that hung off her shoulder. Her hair was down, an Irish mess that Petyr would love to bury his hands in. Sansa had opted out of makeup. If anything told Petyr how truly upset she was, it was skipping the opportunity to dress nice when expecting company.

If Sansa was broken, however, she did not show it. She engaged in conversation over breakfast, ate enough for Petyr's approval and smiled at Mayana’s stupid jokes. Though quiet, she was not defeated. That alone eased him.

Sansa didn’t want to spend her day alone, so Petyr stayed near. Mayana told him he was hovering like a mother goose, but Petyr couldn’t care less what she thought. He asked Sansa for a song to lift her spirits. With the guitar she’d been given for Christmas, Sansa sang about a girl with dreams to her own acoustic accompaniment. Petyr listened selfishly. She was singing for him, after all. When Sansa was done, she sat across his lap, and the two of them spent hours deep in conversation wherever the topic drifted. His hands stayed on her, on her thigh, the other playing with her gorgeous hair, and he kissed her between discussions to keep her mind off the past. It wasn’t until Ros entered the room and started setting up for tea that Sansa bothered to ask about the day’s meeting. “Who are you having over? Oh, Ros, I’m sorry for not helping. I can if you want me to.”

“No, it’s alright. You look comfortable where you are.” Petyr noticed Ros’s lack of playfulness. They were all a bit mournful lately. “You stay right there, where you’re happy.” Ros smiled and left the room. Sansa reached over and snatched a cookie from the tray, taking a small bite.

Petyr brushed the crumbs off her shirt. “To answer your question, I’m inviting everyone who needs to know that Ramsay is going to die.”

Sansa paused. She knew he was testing her, giving another lesson, so she narrowed her eyes in thought. “Brienne? To keep police involvement out. Ramsay is the suspect in at least two different cold cases and he killed Domeric, so… I think she’ll help us.”

“Very good.” He curled her hair behind her ear. “Who else?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa looked off into the distance, thinking. “It seems like the fewer people who know, the more likely we are to get away with it. Right?”

Petyr chuckled. “Whoever said anything about getting away with it? You can’t expect Roose Bolton to get our little message if he doesn’t know that we sent it.”

“You want him to know it was us?” Sansa asked. “But he’ll come after us, won’t he?”

Petyr smirked, tracing her collarbone with the tip of his finger. “Yes, sweetling. He will. But  _how_  he comes after us is important, and  _when_. Give him enough gossip to suspect for now, but no true evidence. He’ll resign from Bolton Corporations, giving us time to clear out Cersei’s final supporters, and by the time they reenter the picture together we’ll be ready to burn them to the ground.” His eyes lifted to hers. “All of this is a part of my strategy. No need to worry.”

Sansa shifted. Petyr watched her beautiful mind work through her doubts. “I trust you,” she decided. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

He slid his hand down her body until it rested on her thigh. “Everything will go according to plan.”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” called Olyvar, rushing from the kitchen to open the manor’s front door. Petyr stayed with Sansa next to the tea and finger foods Ros had made, deviled eggs and biscuits and small cookies, cucumber sandwiches with veggies and dip. Sansa bit into a baby carrot as Brienne Tarth entered the room. Brienne eyed Petyr and Sansa on the couch, Sansa’s legs over his lap and his hand on her thigh, but if Brienne disapproved, she made no comment. “Littlefinger,” she acknowledged. “Miss Stark. It’s good to see you.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Sansa climbed off Petyr’s lap to greet the Deputy Commissioner with a hug. Brienne and Petyr were equally shocked. Sansa was hesitant to be physical with anyone, let alone someone she’d only known for a handful of days, but Petyr calmed his suspicion. Brienne was trustworthy. He’d investigated her enough to know that much.

The others were not far behind Officer Tarth. Olenna Tyrell and Tyrion Lannister arrived as Petyr had instructed. Sansa greeted Olenna with warmth and an embrace, and shook hands with Tyrion as they came into the sitting room. Petyr stayed quiet as the visitors found their seats. Sansa stood awkwardly, unsure where to go. “It’s alright,” soothed Petyr, opening his arms for her. “This is your home. They won’t mind.”

Sansa gave in. She sat close to Petyr’s side, leaning against him and bringing her knees to her chest. Petyr kissed her cheek to praise her.

“I didn’t come here to watch you groom an underage girl, Littlefinger.” Olenna poured herself some tea and dropped sugar cubes in her cup, leaning back to eye him with scrutiny. “Forgive me if I vomit all over your French rugs.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tyrell.” Sansa hugged her knees. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, you did nothing, my dear. But I would prefer it if that lecher kept his hands to himself.” Olenna glared daggers at Littlefinger. He smirked.

“That’s not even the half of it. They’re like this all the time.” Mayana ungraciously kicked up her feet on the coffee table’s edge. "But we won't go into that."

“Good,” said Tyrion.

“Tell me why you called us here, Littlefinger. I’m a busy woman.” Olenna sipped her tea. "I'll even stop shaming you if it means you'll talk."

Petyr opened his mouth to speak. He was cut off by an excited, puzzling gasp from Sansa. “Wait! Did Shae have the baby?” she asked. Petyr had never seen her so animated before. “What did you name her?”

Tyrion brightened at the mention of his daughter. “Florence. Yes, she was born two days ago.”

“Aw, I love that. Florence Lannister, how elegant.” Sansa smiled. “Tell Shae congratulations for me. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful father.”

Tyrion seemed shocked by her compliment. He tapped his stunted fingers along the side of his teacup, hiding how pleased she’d made him. “Thank you, Sansa. That means more than you know.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sansa turned to Petyr. He tried to study her face, read her for some sign of intention. He felt her hand on his knee. A request.  _Let me do this._ He moved her hair over her shoulder, brushed her cheek, and nodded.

“Ramsay has been threatening us.” Sansa faced the group. “Specifically, me.”

Olyvar snorted. “That is a very drastic understatement.”

“Can you tell us what he’s been saying?” asked Brienne.

“He said he’d steal me back.” Sansa swallowed. Petyr didn’t want to hear her repeat Ramsay's violence, but neither would he interrupt her. This was a pivotal moment for Sansa. One she may need more than he realized. “He said he’d feed Littlefinger to his dogs. Burn the house down. Let his friends have turns with me until I begged mercy.” Sansa leaned across Petyr and took her phone from the end table, standing to show the messages to Brienne. “And he… he sent a video of him raping me.”

Brienne was appalled. “He _what?_ ”

“It was a recording. I didn't know he ever filmed me…” Her sigh shook. Petyr wanted Sansa to be near, but he stayed quiet on her behalf. “It’s from a later attack. I stopped fighting him after a while. It could be argued as consensual in court, but I promise it wasn’t. It never was.”

Tyrion and Olenna looked ill. Even Petyr, a man who’d seen and heard worse, felt a touch of disgust. “How long has this been going on?” asked Olenna.

“Since the ball. He threatened me there, too.”

Tyrion scoffed. “He's a lunatic. I’m sorry he’s been doing this to you, Sansa. You deserve some peace of mind.”

“I won’t get it,” she asserted. “Not while he’s still around.”

“Technically this violates his restraining order.” Brienne held up the phone. “I could have him arrested and charged with harassment. It’s not what you might hope for, but it would stop this, if only for a time.”

“No. It wouldn’t.”

Petyr felt oddly silent. In truth, he had nothing to say; it was clear Sansa had this entire meeting planned and arranged in her mind, and he was glad of it, despite feeling slighted of the upper hand. He drank his tea and observed.

“What do you mean?” Tyrion asked. “If Ramsay is apprehended, he won’t be able to come after you.”

“You don’t understand,” pressed Sansa. “He would find a way. Ramsay  _always_  finds a way.” She wrung her hands. “No one knows him better than I do. He has to be stopped.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Olenna condemned Petyr with a stare. “Telling Sansa to pitch your moves is clever, Littlefinger, but I won’t fall for it.”

“No, it’s not him. It's me.” Sansa moved from her seat by Brienne. She stood tall and talked with her hands, shoulders back. “This is my choice. I’m not a child. I’ve been through too much to still have that title. I’ll kill Ramsay because I have to, whether I have your support or not.”

 _A dangerous gamble,_  thought Petyr. It was safer to bet on people you know versus the people you don’t, and Sansa did not know these individuals intimately. But she had a story, a purpose that would tug at their good hearts. Petyr watched her bite her lip, toes together, frowning.  _Show your innocence to sell it._   _Good girl._

“I never thought being a police officer would involve so much scandal,” said Brienne. There was a long moment of pause. “I will help you, Sansa. But only because Ramsay is a monstrous man, and I know he’ll keep hurting people if he isn’t stopped.”

“Thank you.” Sansa smiled. She looked to Tyrion.

“I’m not sure what I can do to help,” said Tyrion. “I’m the Chancellor of the Exchequer. My job is money. I have nothing to do with law enforcement.”

“But you can make a money trail,” said Sansa, folding her hands. “If Littlefinger gives you enough, you can wire it to certain places and change transaction dates. That'll make Brienne’s fake story more believable.”

Tyrion sighed. “Sansa. As much as I admire your spirit, I don’t—”

“Please, Mr. Lannister.” Sansa asserted herself. “You said you wanted to keep me safe at the Christmas party. I said no because I didn’t trust you, but now I need your help. I have to get rid of Ramsay. I have to protect the girls he’s hurt, including myself.”

Petyr watched Tyrion and Olenna have a wordless conversation. Neither one wanted to deny Ned Stark’s daughter. Neither of them could.

“Tyrion will help,” said Olenna. “He knows better than to refuse. But I’m not sure how  _I_  will be able to help you, my dear. Care to let me in on your little plan?”

“You’re the Foreign Secretary,” said Sansa, not missing a beat. “A German assassin was hired to kill Queen Cersei’s bodyguards. You're going to tell Roose Bolton that while investigating the Harrold Hardyng case, you came across a sex trafficking ring that leads back to him and Walder Frey. Roose was involved in that. They were using the basement to hide the girls.”

“How do you know this?” asked Tyrion. “Did you see it?”

“No. But Ramsay talked about them.” Sansa frowned. “I thought he was just trying to scare me until I heard about Walder Frey on the news. Harry wasn’t actually connected, but Roose doesn’t know that. As Foreign Secretary, you can tell him to step down from his position as CEO unless he wants to be investigated. You could probably pin Mr. Hardyng’s hire on him too. Say that he wanted some of Cersei's people dead because they were customers who bought what Walder was selling. Loose ends and all that.” Sansa motioned to the dwarf. “Tyrion will provide a fake bank statement so Queen Cersei will believe that the Boltons hired Mr. Hardyng. Brienne will cover up the evidence of Ramsay’s true death to make it look like he committed suicide. Or… something.” She picked her nails. “I, uh. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

Oh, what a proud man Petyr was. He wished he could fuck her right there on the table, take her by the hips and thrust into her until she forgot her name. She was perfect. A woman bloomed, a rose with thorns. Thorns that would soon draw blood.

“It looks as though Littlefinger has quite the apprentice,” said Olenna, impressed. “But you’re right. Ramsay Bolton is a danger. He’s been a pain in our arses for far too long. I say, good riddance.”

“As do I,” Tyrion agreed.

Mayana clapped her hands together, as if in prayer. Olyvar and Ros shared sighs of relief.

“It’s settled, then.” Petyr stood. “Mayana and a colleague of mine will take the Bolton boy tonight. Tomorrow, he will be dead.”

“Try not to be obvious. I’d rather not get caught up in all this.” Olenna set down her tea and walked to Sansa, gently holding her upper arms. Sansa straightened her back. “You are a very intelligent young lady, Miss Stark. I expect great things from you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replied with a smile. “That means a lot to me.”

The final details were discussed over lunch. Petyr kept a constant eye on Sansa, on her feelings, her fears, but they seemed to have fled. She was bolstered by the support she’d earned. And while Petyr took partial credit for her newfound strength, he wondered how much of it had always been there to begin with.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Mint cigarette smoke filled the air around him. Petyr leaned against the wall of his bedroom balcony, overlooking frost-covered gardens under a moonlit sky. A thick wool robe and pajamas kept him warm. Tobacco, solitude and fresh air would be a recipe for peace, were it not for the company. Ros and Olyvar sat in a pair of patio chairs by the door. Petyr flicked the ashes from his cigarette and watched them shuffle cards, pondering a question until Ros broke the silence.

“I think it’s a bad idea.”

Petyr sighed. “You’ve already said that.”

“It’s not just bad, it’s ridiculous. Killing Ramsay so soon is going to give Roose more reason to come after you. After Sansa. He didn’t let her father stand in his way, why would he let you?”

“I am not Ned Stark.” Petyr drew from his cigarette and blew out. “He didn’t know how to play the game. He walked blindly into politics and business, but I never have.”

“That was before you met Sansa.”

Olyvar widened his eyes at Ros, trying to convince her to be quiet, but she didn’t back down. “By all means,” said Petyr coldly. “Explain.”

“I didn’t mean that in a negative way, Petyr. I just. You know.” She motioned aimlessly. “You’ve never had a weakness before. The Lannisters know that, Roose knows that.”

“They don’t know half as much as they think they do. Let them believe what they want, it doesn’t change anything.”

“Sansa  _is_  your weakness, though,” said Ros. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m happy you’ve found someone. But I’d hate to see you lose her, Petyr, and it’s a possibility if you keep chasing these people.”

Of course it was a possibility. Petyr had known that from the start. “Sansa is not a weakness,” he lied. “She is the sharpest weapon in my arsenal. An asset.”

“Oh, please. You didn’t send Mayana and Lothor out to kidnap the man who hurt your  _asset._ ”

Petyr strangled his discomfort with Littlefinger’s realism. “You think you know me?” he asked with an edge. “Sansa is a pleasure to have in my bed and I enjoy my time with her, but she is a means to an end. I said I would help her. When all this is over, things will change.”

Ros rolled her eyes and snorted. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve seen denial this bad.”

“Tell me about it,” quipped Olyvar.

“I mean, really? It’s not like she bought you a pin that you wear all the time. Or made you dinner on your birthday. She gave you her virginity and lets you be outrageously handsy; I’d slap you if I were her. She talks and laughs with you even though you’re not that funny, she even bloody sang to you.” Ros’s voice fell to one of concern. “I don’t know what else you’re waiting for.”

Petyr worked his jaw. They’d never worried so much about his emotions before, and he didn’t want that to change. “Leave it alone,” he spat. “If she decides to stay indefinitely, she will work for me as you do. That will be that.”

“Friends with benefits?” asked Olyvar. Petyr crushed his cigarette in an ashtray. “Come on. We know you. You’re not going to just let her go.”

“Get off my balcony,” ordered Petyr. “Both of you.”

Ros huffed. She helped Olyvar gather the cards. “Let’s play downstairs, love. He won't listen to us.”

Petyr lit another cigarette and enjoyed peace and quiet under the moonlight. Solitude was a rare treasure, so rare that he wondered why he ever let people live with him in the first place. Petyr rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and breathed.

The door opened. “I told you to get off my balcony,” shot Petyr, but when he moved to scold Ros, he saw only Sansa. Blue eyes blinked at him and her hair was wild. She’d just woken up. “Sansa.” His tone softened. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” She smiled a little, half-yawning. “I fell asleep on the couch downstairs. Ros and Olyvar woke me up, and…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It's comfortable here, I don’t like sleeping alone anymore.”

“Then don’t.” Petyr snuffed out his cigarette and stepped into the room, kept warm by the fireplace, and closed the french doors behind him. “Move in here. There’s space for your belongings.” He placed his finger under her chin, lifting her eyes. “I’d welcome the company.”

Sansa chuckled. “Of course you would.” She slowly pulled at the tie on his robe. He hadn’t forgotten what she wanted. “Do you really mean that? You’d let me stay here, with you?”

“Why not? I enjoy you. You know that.” Petyr shrugged off his robe and tossed it over the nearest chair. His hands found purchase on her hips and pulled her close. “There’s no reason to keep someone I like so much across the hall.”

Her smile was a blessing to him. Sansa rested her hands on Petyr’s chest and bit her lower lip. The sight was arousing. “Could I have the left side of the bed?” she asked. “I always sleep farthest from the door. If that's okay with you.”

“You can have whatever you want.”

Petyr cradled the back of her neck and kissed her, his tongue pushing between her lips. The heat between them quickly swelled. His free hand pulled the strap of her tank top down her shoulder, exposing her breast, and he caressed her in slow circles, gently squeezing. Petyr could feel the trembling breath in her mouth, the goosebumps raise on her arms when she shuddered. The power he held over Sansa was intoxicating. She hummed and moved her head to the side to allow his mouth passage down her neck. He took her skin between his teeth, sucking and nibbling beneath her jawline, pressing a kiss to her ear. His voice was a growl. “Here’s what’s going to happen, sweetling.” Another kiss. “You’re going to lay down on our bed.” Another. “I’m going to call Mayana and see where she and Lothor are.” Another. “I’ll ask her how her day was, and by the time she’s done with her reply, I'll have you coming so hard you forget your sweet name.”

He pulled away. Sansa's eyes were wide, her chest heaving with deepened breath. She nodded and pressed her mouth to his.

Sansa was delectable. So young, so perfect. Her lips moved effortlessly against his. Petyr pushed her back on the mattress when they were close enough and hovered over her, nipping at her neck and drinking down her sighs. Her pleasured tones weakened his knees. He kissed her breasts after stripping them bare, sucking at the peaks until they were swollen and Sansa was squirming with delight. Her moans sent shockwaves straight to his groin. He slipped his hand between her thighs and smiled when he felt how much she wanted him, copper curls and a pool of slick heat he ached to taste. “Look at you,” he praised, watching how her eyelids fluttered from his touch. “Such a desperate thing. Do you want me inside you, Sansa?”

She giggled. Petyr knew he’d embarrassed her, but her blush was too endearing to resist. Sansa pushed down her pajamas and tossed them off her ankles. He spread her legs apart and glided his hand down her inner thigh, and when he circled the nub at the top of her sex, Sansa held back a cry. She tentatively lifted her head to kiss him. Petyr indulged her, licking her lips and brushing tongues, sliding his fingertips over her entrance and stroking her. He propped up on his knees and retrieved his phone from his pocket, his other hand still teasing her. He knew Sansa was ready for him, but Petyr had to fulfill his promise first.

He dialed Mayana’s number on speaker phone.

 _“Hey, Pete!”_  came Mayana’s cheery voice.  _“I was wondering when you’d call. We just pulled up to the stakeout point.”_

“Good job.” Petyr cocked his head to the side, watching Sansa’s uncertain expression until he slipped two fingers between her folds. Inside, she was all warmth and wonder and Petyr ground his teeth, pulsing with need. Sansa covered her mouth to stop from moaning aloud. Mayana, as usual, had no idea. “Do you see him yet?” asked Petyr, pulling out his fingers enough to push back in with a harder thrust. Sansa covered her mouth even tighter. “I want it done.”

_“Nah, not yet. Lothor says he’ll probably be here in about five or ten minutes. We’re just waiting.”_

“Fair enough.” Petyr pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sansa’s ear and grinned as she writhed beneath him, her hands snaking in his hair. “Tell me about your day, Mayana. While we wait.”

 _“Oh, sure.”_  He heard her shuffle in the passenger’s seat, getting comfortable.  _“Well, you saw me this morning. I was super tired though, I had a terrible night’s sleep and…”_

Petyr looked at Sansa, still inside her. “You’d better be ready for me,” he whispered.

“I am.”

Petyr kissed her neck over the marks he’d already made, leaving a damp trail from his tongue when he pressed kiss after kiss down her torso. Mayana kept blabbing on the other end of the phone while Petyr studied Sansa’s shy little smile that made him ache to fill her. He kissed down and down until he reached the source of her pleasure, the scent of her driving him mad, and he swiped his tongue where she wanted him.

Sansa clutched her mouth shut. Petyr licked her pleasure point at a growing pace, so drunk on her arousal that he didn’t stop her from reaching over and muting his phone. When she was sure Mayana couldn’t hear them, Sansa moaned. The sound vibrated through him and set his mouth to a quickening pace, tasting her sweetness and lapping at the ball of nerves that would send her reeling. His fingers sped to a fast-paced thrust inside her and Sansa cried out, hands in his hair, and he watched her expression change to reflect what he was making her feel. Lips parted in gasps, eyes closed, brow creased. Petyr slid his free hand over her rib cage to reach for a breast, rolling her nipple between thumb and forefinger. She grabbed his hand and held tight to his hair. Petyr could feel her getting close before a minute had passed. Her thighs tensed and her breath sputtered in exasperation, teetering on the edge of ecstasy. He groaned against her flesh and kept his pace. The taste of her was all over his tongue and he was hard as rock, desperate to fuck her, kiss her, take her. Petyr curved his fingers to work her deepest spot, and with his tongue flicking her sex, Sansa came with a spasm that shook her to the core. Petyr watched her back arch, her expression lax, how she moaned and mewled and trembled under him. When the high had fallen, Petyr sucked her arousal from his fingers and came up to kiss her hard. Sansa held him there. He was happy to stay, chuckling and vulgarly praising her obedience until Mayana’s voice spoke loudly from the phone.

_“Pete? You still there?”_

Petyr gave Sansa another kiss before he reached for the phone and unmuted it. “Yes. Apologies, Mayana. I was hungry.”

Sansa smacked him playfully on the chest.

_“Oh, that’s fine. But yeah. It’s been pretty lame. What about you?”_

“Wonderful. Just wonderful.” Petyr glided his fingertips up and down Sansa’s impeccable body, laying on his side, watching the movement. “Sansa sang another song for me.”

“Stop,” Sansa whispered, but her expression was all amusement.

_“Aww. That’s cute. What did she sing?”_

Petyr raised his brow at her. “Well, sweetling? What did you sing?”

Sansa giggled. “I can’t remember the name.”

_“Oh! I didn’t know you were there too. Hey girl.”_

“Hi Mayana.” Sansa slowly pushed Petyr on his back. He smirked, desire thrumming through his veins when she straddled his lap, naked and perfect, red hair spilling over her shoulders. “And Lothor, too.”

 _“Mm,”_  said the man.

_“How much longer until this bastard shows up, Pete? I don’t wanna wait here all night.”_

“If it comes to that, you will.” Petyr caressed Sansa’s breast in one hand, unable to resist, while the other summoned her down to him with a wag of his finger. “Have you seen him at all?”

_“Not since he left the house an hour ago. Do you think we’re in the wrong place?”_

“No. You’re right where you need to be.” Petyr moved Sansa’s hair over her shoulder when she leaned forward, and he kissed her slow. He slid his hands up her back and tangled them in her hair.

_“I — oh my god. Are y'all doin' shit right now? I swear to god Pete, if you’re being an actual freak I’m gonna—”_

Sansa broke their kiss to laugh. Petyr loved the sound. “We just kissed, that’s all.” He groaned quietly when he felt her fingers toy with the seam of his trousers, slipping beneath to brush the head of his length.

 _“Uh-uh. I’m not havin’ it.”_  Petyr heard a bag crinkle and crack, followed by the crunch of crisps. He ignored it as Sansa kissed him again.  _“I swear to Jesus I will hang up this phone.”_

 _“Hey,”_  said Lothor.  _“I told you not to eat in the car. Mya will flip if she finds crumbs, she just cleaned it.”_

_“Psh. Let her bitch. I’m hungry and Pete mentioned food, and…”_

She trailed off. Sansa stopped her kiss, as though she knew what was happening before Mayana spoke. _“I see him. Just pulled up to the trail in his dad’s car.”_

“Who’s with him?” asked Petyr.

_“His psycho girlfriend and their victim. It’s messy, but I think the girl’s still alive.”_

Sansa met Petyr’s eyes, afraid. He cupped her cheek to soothe her. “Are they getting out of the car?”

_“Yep.”_

“Take him. Kill his whore and make it look like a lover’s quarrel. Save the innocent one, but make her swear not to tell the police. Pay her family if you have to.”

_“Okay.”_

“Bring him to the cabin. Sansa and I will take care of it from there.” Petyr slid his hand down Sansa’s neck to the valley between pert breasts, twirling his fingers in her fiery hair. Sansa’s eyes were worried, but so too were they prepared beyond anything of his own doing. She was ready.

Petyr didn’t wait for a response. He hung up the phone and flipped Sansa on her back. She made some sound between a laugh and a whimper, pulling his shirt over his head as he pulled his cock from his trousers, and he pressed into her with a low groan. Buried deep, Sansa’s body hugged him tight. He thrust into her until she was crying out for him, for God, trembling from another orgasm that squeezed him inside, nails digging into his back, and Petyr grabbed her hair to make her look at him. Blue eyes were all he saw before he succumbed. Her name fell from his lips in a shuddered sigh, _“Sansa,”_  as he spilled inside her. He kissed her tenderly in the center of her forehead, a sign of praise for how strong and irrefutable she’d become.

“Tomorrow,” he told her.

“Tomorrow,” she repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the things i do for y'all im tellin' ya (it's 4am but here i am, making edits, doin changes)  
> can you believe i once had a life  
> Okay so 1) petyr baelish is the GROSSEST human on the planet good lord 2) when writing him being touchy and weird i get so annoyed like honestly why did i choose to love him 3) is anyone more obsessed with anything the way he is with sansa?? i think not. find one for me i'll pay ya $10 (just kidding im way too poor but i'll give u ten imaginary $$$ how's that)  
> im so tired  
> ANYWAY this chapter is Sinful and next chapter is Sinful and petyr is gross and sansa is strong blah blah the basics  
> if i go to sleep RIGHT THIS INSTANT and wake up at noon to update that's 8 hours of sleep (is that enough? who knows im half-dead)  
> anyway i love u and your comments give me life and i can't WAIT until next week because y'all gonna flip (i know i say that a lot but chap 16 is like, the most important chapter i've written thus far so listen it's good shit)  
> hopefully i didn't screw up my edits im exhausted adlkja;lkgda if there are typos or this chapter sucks pls forgive i am a walking stress bean  
> here is a picture of me, tumblr user liittlefinger and ao3 user moffnat, at the current time circa 2016  
>   
> night y'all


	16. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[take charge of your life; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bue-sW9HGTU)] ◆ [[evidence; marilyn manson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nO9C4fF0o8)] ◆ [[wrong; max, lil uzi vert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzZRLCURHCE)]   
> 

  
**6 JANUARY, 2017**

They drove for hours. Sansa slept most of the way, hers and Petyr’s hands laced together in her lap. She leaned her head against the window and fell into a lucid half-sleep, avoiding thoughts of where they were going and what they were about to do.  _Calm before the storm,_  urged her conscience. _Don’t face it 'till it’s here._

Petyr owned a cabin in the Welsh countryside. According to Olyvar, it was less a retreat and more a key location for hidden crime. A small A-frame lodge rested at the top of a hill, cozy and unsuspicious, but a steel door on the property led to an old bomb shelter underground. Ramsay was being held there.  _He’s waiting for me,_  Sansa feared, but she knew that was misguided. All Ramsay waited for was the death she’d come to deliver.

“Sansa,” said Petyr, squeezing her hand. Her eyes fluttered open from dull slumber. The car had stopped moving. “We’re here.”

She didn’t see a cabin. Only evergreens, the steel door, and a wooden staircase leading west up the hill. Night had fallen and a light snow sprinkled the windshield. Petyr let go of her hand and shut off the engine, keeping the headlights on to see their surroundings. He exited the car. Sansa watched him toy with an electrical box attached to a light post, and after a minute, the path to the cabin was illuminated.

Sansa got out of the car. Gravel crunched beneath her boots and she hugged herself, a fur-lined coat doing little to stop winter’s chill. The smell of the forest brought solace to her, spruce and pine and juniper and oak. Rushing water from a ravine echoed to the sky. It was tranquil here, so far from London and the chaos she’d come to know. Far from the problems that would be waiting upon her return.

Sansa approached the bunker door. She knew what was inside, _who_ was inside, but she wasn’t yet ready to enter. Something held her back. She stared blankly forward.

“You can go up to the cabin if you’d like,” said Petyr, standing at her side. The absence of his touch made her uneasy. “You don’t need to dirty your hands.”

Sansa wasn’t fooled. Petyr wanted her to take part, he’d encouraged as much, but she knew there was one thing he wanted more: to kill Ramsay himself. She looked to him in dismay. “I’m nervous.”

He studied her sidelong. The headlights from the car brought his features to a forefront, the wrinkles near grey-green eyes, silver streaks of hair, the smoothness of his cheek. Petyr held her face in his cold hands. “There’s no justice in the world. Not unless we make it.” His thumbs brushed her skin, and Sansa managed a thin smile. “You loved your body and he took that from you. You loved your home, your parents, your family, all of which he burned to ash.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to her ear. His voice surged through her like lightning. “ _Avenge them._ ”

Her fingers curled into the front of his coat. Sansa let Petyr hold her until she felt confident enough to continue, and when she pulled back, her shoulders were settled firmly. Even if her heart wasn’t. “I’ll take our things to the cabin,” said Petyr. “Then we will end this together.”

Sansa nodded. Petyr pressed a long kiss to her temple, and then he was gone, taking their bags up the stairway.

 _You can do this,_  Sansa told herself when she faced the door again. The voice in her head was Robb’s, somehow.  _You’re not fragile anymore. You’re steel, you will cut him down._

With a deep breath, Sansa entered the bunker.

She walked down the steps. The room was swallowed in darkness. Sansa felt the wall for a light switch, flipping it on. Ceiling lamps flickered to life. Concrete walls were lined with shelves, two sinks, beakers and chemicals and cleaning supplies. The smell of bleach was overwhelming.

The door opened behind her. Petyr came down the stairs, but Sansa’s focus was fixed on Ramsay.

Her nightmare was tied with rope to a chair in the center of the room. Covered in filth, head hanging. Ramsay lifted his gaze to her. Neither of them spoke. Sansa shuddered, still afraid to be around him even knowing he couldn’t harm her, but  _what if he does?_  The question lingered. Sansa suffocated those fears with the woman she’d become.

“Sansa,” groaned Ramsay. His bloody mouth twisted in a smile. “Hello, Sansa.”

Petyr placed his hand on her shoulder. She held his fingers tight. “I am at your disposal,” he whispered. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Sansa’s eyes never left Ramsay’s, paralyzed under his stare. But it wasn’t terror that kept her frozen. Only uncertainty, and the break in her morals that allowed her to be here at all.

Petyr removed his coat and rolled up his cotton sleeves. Ramsay watched him. “And Littlefinger, of course. What a pleasant surprise. I must be very important.”

Petyr didn’t respond. He looked to Sansa, a near-sickening hint of amusement in his eyes. She didn’t remove her coat — Ramsay had seen enough of her — and took a folding chair from where it leaned against the wall. Her mask slipped on. She sat down in front of her rapist and coldly observed him. Ramsay’s face was beaten and bruised, crusted dirt and blood smeared over his skin. She crossed one leg over the other and met his piercing gaze with the shield of her own. When Sansa refused to cower, Ramsay chuckled. “You always were a fighter.”

“I always will be.”

Ramsay leaned back in his chair. Sansa didn’t pay mind to what he was thinking, what he was doing to her in his head. She had his life in her hands. There was little he could do, and his greed for her was harmless compared to what had already been done. “You look ravishing,” he said. “Seeing you almost makes me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Why not? Are you going to kill me, Sansa?”

Silence was her answer.

“You can’t kill me. I’m part of you, inside you.” Ramsay’s smile was twisted. “All those lovely nights we spent together. There’s nothing you can do to change them.”

“You’re not a part of me,” said Sansa. “If anything, you’re a symbol of all I’ve overcome.”

Ramsay averted his eyes, a wry grin still present. The situation was humorous to him, but Sansa knew him well enough to see past his defense.

“You’re finally going to be a killer,” said Ramsay. “How is your god going to like that?”

Sansa folded her hands. “There are three instances where taking a life doesn’t invoke God’s wrath. Self-defense, judicial execution or times of war. You fit two of those.”

“I’ve been a very busy man.”

“Joke all you want. My truth is stronger than yours.”

He leaned forward menacingly. “Not strong enough to keep me out of your cunt.”

Sansa winced. She forced herself to realize the power she possessed, standing at a crossroad where every direction led to the same gruesome end. All she had to do was choose a path. She kept her back straight and addressed Petyr. “Do you have gloves?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You should put them on.”

Petyr nodded and did as she asked.

Sansa rose from the chair. Ramsay sneered in a too-familiar way, so close to past memory that her stomach turned. “Do you know how hard I’ve tried to get rid of you? For weeks after I left, all I did was cry. I felt broken. Dirty, untouchable.”

“Oh, you are  _very_ touchable,” said Ramsay. Sansa looked to Petyr. He took her hint, clenching his fist and slamming covered knuckles against Ramsay’s jaw. The hit sent him reeling.

“I had so many nightmares,” she continued. “You kept your hold on me and I didn’t know how to fight it. I spent so long wondering if I could ever heal.”

Ramsay laughed, sudden and sharp. “I broke you. Oh, Sansa, you always know how to make me happy.”

Petyr punched him again, spattering blood on the floor. Ramsay spit out one of his teeth.

“But I moved on,” Sansa proclaimed, chest full of fire. “I fought for myself. I survived, and a day will come when I never think of you again.”

“I own you,” Ramsay insisted. His speech was jutting and harsh, stronger than it should be. “You can never undo what I did. I fucked you. You’ll always remember the way you screamed and—”

Petyr yanked Ramsay’s hair and struck him so hard that Sansa heard bone crack. “Don’t!” she urged, holding back his arm. “Please, Petyr, please don’t. He’s just trying to upset me.”

“It’s not something I care to hear.”

Ramsay laughed, spitting blood at his feet. “Petyr? Are you joking? That’s your real name?”

Sansa tightened her grip on her lover’s arm.

“Petyr, Petyr, it rhymes with  _beat her._ ”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Sansa. “Please.”

“It’s alright. I’ve heard worse.” But there was danger in Petyr’s tone, an unprecedented darkness that Sansa dared not test. She didn’t want him to turn hateful, nor did she want Ramsay to think her control was slipping away. Sansa reached into the back of Petyr’s jeans and pulled the Ruger from his waistband.

She walked to the cabinets. A drawer labeled “Tools” held a silencer, and Sansa quickly attached it to the gun. Ramsay went on about the many ways he’d abused her, from the raping to the beating to everything else, but Sansa let his words evaporate like mist. She would not listen.

When she was done, Sansa stood before Ramsay and aimed.

Her father’s words came back to her.  _If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words._  Sansa bit back a sob. “Why?” she shouted. “You could’ve manipulated me by being kind. I could’ve slept with you willingly, I could’ve signed you into my father’s fortune without all this  _pain._ ” Her hands began to shake with their grip on the gun. “Why did you hurt me?”

Ramsay’s eyes were wild. He leaned forward. “Because I could.”

Petyr stood by Sansa, one hand on her waist, his mouth at her ear. “Steady, my love.” She squared her shoulders. She scanned Ramsay’s body for his vital organs, and fired three times.

Ramsay’s smile fell. Blood spilled from his chest cavity and wept to the floor. His head fell back. Sansa waited until she was sure he was dead, lowering the gun only after he stopped breathing.

The task was done. Sansa felt no different than she had before, no stronger or weaker, no better or worse. But she felt weightless. Of that, there was no denying.

Petyr stepped in front of her. He gently took the gun from her hands and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. She felt the blood from his gloves touch her face. “You did well,” he praised, their mouths inches apart. “Take the cabin keys. I will finish the rest.”

Sansa took the keys from his pocket, her hands still shaking. Petyr held them with care. Ramsay’s blood stained her skin. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” She squeezed his hands, taking a breath to settle herself. “It’s done. He’s gone.”

Petyr nodded. “Forever.” He kissed her forehead like a father, but his lips lingered like the lover he was. Petyr moved away. Sansa, feeling she’d done all she could, climbed the stairs and left the bunker without looking back.

The night had grown colder. Sansa shivered and held herself. There was peace among the smell of the forest and fresh snow, the frost-coated grass, the rush of water down a rolling Welsh countryside. She was alone, but she did not feel alone. She dared to think God was with her. She touched the Magen David around her neck and closed her eyes. _Forgive me. He’d hurt other women, he’d hurt me, I_ _had to._

But there was no need to explain. Snowfall grew heavier and fell on her cheeks like a kiss. Sansa felt forgiven.

She trudged up the hillside stair. The A-frame cabin looked nothing more than a large wooden triangle on a hill, but Sansa thought it charming. She found the right key and unlocked the door. A wall of heat from the fireplace met her face, and Sansa quickly closed the door so it couldn’t escape. The ceiling was paneled in oak wood. A small dining room sat to Sansa’s right, a couch and telly to her left, a modest kitchen, a hallway to the bathroom. Stairs at the back led up to the loft that overlooked the quaint interior. It was strangely welcoming for a place of death and scandal. How appropriate, for this family she'd found.

Sansa shed her winter coat and hung it up by the door, and climbed up to the loft. As promised, her bag of clothes for the weekend was sitting on the bed, next to Petyr's. She retrieved her mother’s rosary from a small zipped pouch and got on her knees to pray. Not because she felt damned or sinful, but because it was all she knew, and she wanted to make sure God was still listening. Sansa prayed for the souls of her family. Even Arya and Jon, accepting their likely deaths, and for Theon, whom she hoped she could save. She prayed for her new family, too. Ros and Olyvar and Mayana and Petyr. And when she was done, her soul felt cleansed.

Sansa grabbed a pair of pajamas and went down to the bathroom. The shower was massive and modern, and the door was made of glass, no curtain. She placed her clothes on the counter and stripped down. Sansa looked at herself in the mirror. Small traces of Ramsay’s blood still lingered on her hands and chin where Petyr had touched her, but there were no bruises, no marks. She grinned at the hickeys on her neck.  _Except these._ Sansa was beginning to learn the difference between marks made with pain and those earned by choice, and what a thrilling distinction it was.

Sansa opened the shower door. There were two knobs, one for directional water and the other for a rainshower. She turned the second. Water fell from the nozzle in the ceiling, and Sansa held out her hands in wonderment when she stood beneath it. The water was the perfect heat, not scalding but certainly warm enough. Sansa smoothed her hair, letting water run down her naked skin. She began to sing. She rubbed the blood from her hands and face, listening to her own voice until her song was done.

Sansa stepped out of the water to find soap. A figure caught her eye.

Petyr stood in the middle of the bathroom, covered in Ramsay’s blood, watching her.

Sansa froze. She didn’t dare move, not when he looked at her like that, like a predator ready to pounce. She was familiar with that stare. Petyr had shown it to her many times, and whenever he did, it always ended the same way.

He pulled off his shirt. His upper body was pale skin and black hair and scars and  _red._  Petyr unbuckled his jeans. Arousal made her shiver at the thought of what he was going to do and how hard he was going to do it. Undressed, Petyr opened the shower door and stepped in to join her.

“You’re filthy,” she whispered.

Petyr looked down at himself. “A mess, I agree.” He moved toward her and touched either side of her neck, bodies close, hearts pounding. “What am I to do about that?”

Sansa touched his chest. It was strange to think that the blood had come from Ramsay, a man who’d tortured her, and it covered the very person Sansa had trusted in the aftermath.  _What a mess we’ve made together._  “I guess I’ll have to share the soap.”

Petyr smirked. He kissed her hard.

Sansa’s skin grew hot as their kiss ignited, lips parting for his tongue to invade. Petyr moved them under the raining shower. Ramsay’s blood ran down his body and slithered fast to the drain, as though passion had purified them of what they’d done. Sansa tasted the mint in his mouth, the sweat on his mustache, the shower water dripping between kisses. She felt him harden against her stomach and he gripped her hips so tight that it pained her, but she closed the distance even still, no longer a stranger to depravity. The shower floor ran red. Tiles stained crimson. A younger Sansa would be ashamed of this aching need, trapped in the mouth of an unholy man who’d convinced her to kill, but she’d grown far beyond naïveté. She was powerful. She was her own. And she’d made the choice to be his.

With a groan, Petyr pushed Sansa against the cold wall, spreading her legs and lifting her, arms hooked under her knees. She gasped and held him. There was wickedness in the control he exercised, made worse by his growl when he reached between her legs to ensure she was ready, but Sansa knew which control to desire and which to fear. Petyr had a touch of both.

When he slid inside her, Sansa whimpered in his ear.

Petyr cursed. Vulgarity was followed by praise, exalting Sansa for her bravery, her resilience, her beauty, all to the rhythm of piercing thrusts. Sansa clung to his shoulders, the back of his head, and Petyr rammed into her with an animosity she’d yet to see. She pulled away enough to kiss him. Tame him. It only stoked his lust. He took her lower lip between his teeth and kissed down her neck, biting her without grace, but the way he gripped her ass and pounded into her made Sansa’s world collapse, and she didn’t care how rough he was, so long as he didn’t stop. The sound of rushing water was all she knew, his grunts and groans and Sansa’s echoing cries, begging him to keep going. The angle brought pressure right where she needed it. Over, over, and over again. Her body tightened up like a coil until she found release in his arms, a shuddering wave that nearly choked her, and Petyr followed directly after, moaning her name and jutting inside her until he was too spent to continue.

Sansa fought to catch her breath. Petyr kissed her cheek, her nose, her temple, and Sansa smiled when their lips met. He moved lazily inside her. “You are such a brave girl,” he praised. “You’re perfect.”

He set Sansa down on her feet, but her legs were wobbly from climax and she could barely keep standing. Petyr smirked when she clung to him to stay upright. “Obviously not perfect,” she joked.

Petyr guided her to the shower bench and helped her sit down. He said nothing as he grabbed a bottle of pomegranate-scented soap and squeezed some onto his hands, kneeling in front of Sansa to wash her. He rubbed soap over one leg at a time, her knees, her shins, between her toes, all while she resisted laughter at how it tickled. He spread his hands over her thighs and up her torso, caressing her breasts and kissing her neck, unable to get enough of her, making her hum and squirm with delight.  _His hands are so nice,_  she thought as she watched them. Soft and gentle and wrinkled with age, veins along the backs of his palms. He massaged her shoulders and ears, gliding soapy hands down her arms, cleansing every bit of her in a ritualistic way. Sansa knew what Petyr’s worship meant. His care to cleanse her body was just another symptom of their mutual sin.

“Why the gun?” Petyr asked.

“Mm?” Sansa lifted her head from the wall, so lost in his touch that she hadn’t heard him.

“The gun. Out of all the weapons at your disposal, you picked mine.” He stood and offered his hand to help her to her feet. “Why?”

Sansa accepted his help. Petyr twisted the other knob, changing the water’s source from the ceiling to the wall, and Sansa rinsed off. “I don’t know,” she decided. “You were right there. You taught me how to use a gun and it’s quicker, so…” Sansa found Petyr’s body wash and lathered some on her hands. She moved behind him to massage his shoulders, and his muscles lost tension instantly. “I didn’t want to feel him die.”

“How noble of you.”

“I wouldn’t call it noble. I just didn’t want to be cruel, or waste more of my time on him.” She shrugged. “He can’t hurt anyone now, though. That’s all that matters.”

Petyr’s chest shook with a laugh. “You’ve learned well.”

“I had a good teacher.”

Sansa felt Petyr relax under her hands as she rubbed his shoulders in a circular motion. He succumbed to the weakness she brought out in him. Who else had such power? Sansa knew of no one, not even Mayana, who had been with him for so many years. She pressed a grateful kiss to the back of his neck and wrapped her arms around him. Her cheek rested on the back of his shoulder, and she held him silently. Her hands came together at the center of his chest, under the water’s aim. She felt his shoulders rise and fall with heavy breath. Petyr placed his hands over hers, lifting one to kiss her knuckles. Sansa marveled at how lucky she must be to see him so open. In _her_ arms. Under  _her_  care. The world’s most dangerous man was desperate to be loved, even if he never said so himself.

Sansa was content to remain still until Petyr turned around. He held her face and kissed her forehead. “I am very proud of you, Sansa. You have grown stronger than even I had anticipated. When our plans are complete and your vengeance taken…” He met her eyes. “Do not travel far.”

Sansa smiled. Petyr knew how to make demands, but asking from the heart was rare. “I won't go,” she assured. “I know where I belong.”

He kissed her slow. Sansa felt the scratch of his beard and the softness of his lips, the sweet taste of his tongue, and closed her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OH BOY**  
>  what did i tell you. good sin right? very sin  
> A few things. Firstly, I know some of you might be thinking that Petyr wouldn't get his hands dirty or get so involved with this death, but this is again another symptom of modern AU changes. Petyr had to be on his own for a while, had to rise somehow, so he knows how to do the dirty work. Sansa sees this side of him firsthand primarily because it's a learning experience for her. And Petyr gets satisfaction from hurting Ramsay even though that's really not his place, but w/e. Pete's selfish. [casual shrug emoji]  
> ah yes, another late night editing, how lovely my life has become  
> ummm yeah, good shit! Next week will be the last chapter before the intermission/halfway point/end of part two, and then I'll take another week off just for my own sanity. I need to get myself together for the SHITSTORM that the second half of this story is. I'm not sorry.  
> also like....this goes without saying, but i do not condone the murder of your abusers omg. this is a special scenario. and it's fiction. don't go and kill people y'all i don't fancy being accessory to murder ok  
> mmm sleep  
> see you saturday lovelies <3


	17. The Ladder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[no church in the wild; jay-z, kanye west](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJt7gNi3Nr4)] ◆ [[chaos is a ladder; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0bp32opLxI)]   
> 

  
**9 JANUARY, 2017**

Cheesy eggs and sausage were much better than Cheerios. Arya sat on the couch with her legs crossed, shoveling food in her mouth between comments on the program she was watching. Most of Arya’s free time was spent binge-watching Netflix or finding new puns to irritate Jon, but doing both at once was something special. Her brother opened a can of beer and walked into the living room. When he did, Arya held up her plate. “Breakfast is  _egg_ cellent.”

Jon groaned. He picked up a pillow and threw it in Arya’s face before sitting down beside her. “What’re  _Jew_  watching?”

“ _Top Gear._ ” She bit into a piece of beef sausage. “There’s nothing else on. And your pun is unoriginal, no points for you.”

Jon leaned back to watch. The two of them sat through some stuff about cars until they reached the adverts. Jon leaned over and stole a sausage from Arya’s plate. She yelled at him.

“Turn to the news,” he told her. “I wanna see what they’re sayin’ about Ramsay.”

Arya eagerly changed the channel. The siblings watched the weather forecast and another round of commercials before the news anchor talked about their topic of interest.

_“Investigators in the Ramsay Bolton case have concluded that the death was a homicide. The suspect, Myranda Smith, 19, was also killed in what appears to have been a lover’s quarrel in the hills outside city limits. Despite his attempts to lead police down a different path, Roose Bolton, the victim's father, was furious when Commissioner Tarth announced this morning that the case had already been solved. So far, there has been no comment from Sansa Stark, who claims to have been abused by Ramsay during their brief engagement.”_

“A fight?” said Arya, unimpressed. “That’s the best Littlefinger could do?”

Jon looked at her. “What would you’ve done?”

“I’d tell the truth. ‘Victim of Monster Slays the Beast.’” Arya smiled at her creativity. “It sounds better. Sansa deserves credit, anyway.”

“Yeah, if she wants to go to prison.”

Arya made a sour face. Jon took her dishes when she was done, rinsing them and starting the dishwasher.  _Sansa shouldn’t go to prison,_  Arya thought, switching the channel back.  _She did what she had to do, just like Varys said._

Arya would always be proud of Sansa for pulling the trigger.

Someone knocked on the door. Varys had said he would come by at eleven, and Arya glanced to the clock, realizing she’d lost track of time. “Oh. It’s Varys.”

“You think?” said Jon sarcastically. He shook the water from his hands and wiped them on his jeans, walking down the hall to open the door. Varys entered with a shiver. _No disguise this time,_  Arya noticed.

“It is insufferably cold outside,” said Varys, taking the earmuffs off his head. “Too cold if you ask me.” He waved to Arya, who waved back. Ghost barked and wagged his tail in excitement, trapping Varys by the door until he pulled a treat from his pocket. “Here, you overgrown pup.”

Ghost yipped and caught the jerky in his mouth. Able to pass, Varys hung up his coat, but kept his shoes on. He sat down in a chair in front of the telly. “ _Top Gear?_ ”

“Yeah. Nothing else is on.” Arya turned off the TV. She didn’t want to distract him. “Why are you here?”

“Arya,” scolded Jon from the kitchen, but she ignored him.

“Am I truly that unbearable to be around?” asked Varys with a fake frown. “And after all I’ve done for you.”

Arya shrugged. Ghost curled up under her feet, content.

“Do you want something to eat, sir?” asked Jon. “Coffee? Tea?”

“No, no thank you. I just ate, actually.” Varys patted his stomach. “A dear friend took me out to breakfast.”

“Which friend is that?” Arya asked.

“Olenna Tyrell. Foreign Secretary, head of MI6.”

“Oh.” Arya didn’t bother to ask why that was important, and picked at her nails instead.

“You two have been keeping busy,” said Varys. “I noticed you purchased a bicycle?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna get a job soon.” Arya patted the seat beside her. Ghost crawled up and laid at her side, resting his head in her lap. “I can bring in some extra pounds. I need something to do or I’ll just destroy everything.”

“It’s true,” said Jon, drying his hands with a rag as he entered the room. “She gets awfully destructive when she’s cooped up for too long.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I have a little something on the agenda for today.” Varys smiled. Arya eyed him closely. “Perhaps you’d like to take a seat, Mr. Stark. This may be a lengthy conversation.”

Jon hesitated. He tossed the rag on the kitchen counter and sat near Ghost’s other side, patting him on the back. “What’s this about?”

“Cersei has asked to see me again,” said Varys. “I don’t believe she’ll be alone this time. I think it’s best if both of you come with me.”

“To meet the queen?” asked Jon, surprised. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Varys waved his hand. “Of course it’s dangerous. No, you won’t be meeting with the queen. I will. And with the help of my friends at MI6…” He pulled a pen from his pocket and held it delicately. “You’ll watch.”

Arya raised her brow. “It’s a pen.”

“Yes. A very small pen, and a very small camera.”

Arya snatched the pen from his hands and examined the chrome exterior for a lens. There was nothing. When she looked up at Varys, he was still smiling.

“MI6 is quite the innovative group, my dear. Befriending the Queen of Thorns has been a good investment on my part.”

Arya held the pen up to the light. “What does it do?”

“It captures video and audio of everything nearby and transmits it to a local device. In this case, your brother’s laptop.” Varys pointed to Jon’s Macbook on the table. “Just a bit of installation and, _voilà._  Instant broadcast.”

“No way,” Arya muttered.  _What would Rickon say if he knew Jon and I were a Jewish James Bond?_

“Why do we need to go with you?” Jon questioned. “Can’t we see the stuff here?”

“Unfortunately, no. This device has a shorter range. You’ll need to wait in the car.”

“Like sitting ducks,” spat Arya.

“Perhaps. But no one will know you are there, except me and the undercover MI6 agents who’ll be protecting you.” Varys folded his hands. “I wouldn’t leave the Stark children unguarded in a car park.”

“Agents? _Real_  agents?” Arya grinned. “Cool.”

“It sounds risky.” Jon met eyes with Arya. “You in?”

“Hell yeah.” She high-fived her brother. “But why does Cersei want to see you? Is it about Ramsay?”

“I’m not sure,” Varys replied. “She didn’t tell me any details over the phone, but I imagine it’s rather important. Whatever it is, she’ll want the information on Littlefinger I promised her.”

“What about Sansa?” Jon crossed the room to slip on a pair of runners. “We can’t put her in danger.”

“No, we can’t,” said Varys as he stood. “My goal is to pry her from Littlefinger’s grasp before she turns eighteen, so when she collects the Stark fortune, she’ll be under no one’s influence but her own. But we’ll have to see. It all depends on what Cersei says today.”

Arya whistled for Ghost to move. She found her shoes and jacket, tussling her blue bedridden curls in the mirror and grabbing a package of chewing gum. “We won't have to kill anyone, right?”

“No,” chuckled Varys, “no killing. You can’t get out of the car.”

“Nice.” Arya grabbed a water bottle, some snacks for the ride and her cell phone, fully charged. Jon and Varys met her at the door.

“You’re wearing pajamas?” pointed Jon.

Arya looked down to her bright green, wolf-print pajama pants. “What? We can’t get out of the car, he said.”

Her brother snorted and opened the door.

The drive to their destination didn’t take more than an hour. Arya lounged in the backseat while Jon installed the necessary programs on his laptop. After doing next to nothing for over a week, Arya was glad to get out of the house, flip off the Lannisters, wreak a little havoc. Her leg began to bounce. Anxious thoughts paced in her frazzled mind.

“Where are we?” Arya asked when they pulled into a parking garage off a street she didn’t recognize.

“Bolton headquarters,” said Varys. “But don’t worry. Like I said, there are undercover agents nearby to make sure nothing happens to you. Olenna Tyrell takes your protection as seriously as I do.”

“Good to know,” said Jon half-heartedly. He peered out the window after Varys parked. “Tinted windows?”

“Yes.”

“And Cersei really doesn’t know we’re here?”

“No.” Varys turned to them, a sad smile on his face. “If I wanted to lead you both into a trap, Mr. Stark, don’t you think I would have already done so?”

Arya rolled her eyes.  _That’s comforting._

“Set up the computer and open the program you installed. You’ll hear from me shortly. And don’t leave the vehicle, the agents can only protect you when you’re out of sight from wandering eyes.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arya popped a piece of gum in her mouth, despite Jon’s judging stare. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. I may need it.”

Varys left. The car beeped, locked inside and out, and Arya released a nervous sigh. They were vulnerable here. No matter how much she trusted Varys, she felt like a wolf trapped in an expensive cage.

Time passed. No feed from the camera, no audio. Ten minutes. Twenty. She tried to stay occupied with a Batman comic Jon had bought for her, but she didn’t have enough focus to stay pulled from the tension.

“This is stupid.” Arya folded her arms across her chest.

“What do you want me to say?” asked Jon.

“I don’t know. We should be doing stuff, not just sitting in the back of a car.” Arya pressed her feet against the back of the passenger’s seat and slid down to get comfortable. “I thought this would be fun. I hate it when people don’t think we can handle ourselves.”

“He’s the only hope we’ve got, Arya. We have to trust him.” Jon adjusted the laptop on the center console. “Might as well relax.”

“Pfft,” was Arya’s reply.

They waited for what felt like hours. Arya kept bouncing her leg and shaking the car, ignoring how many times Jon asked her to stop. She pulled out her phone. Scrolled through Sansa’s Instagram.  _Nothing new,_  she thought,  _just filtered pictures of snow and Gross Guy’s hand on her thigh._ Jon didn’t say anything, leaning back on the headrest to catch some sleep. A shame. She wanted someone to complain to.

Arya was both relieved and horrified when Varys’s voice came from the speakers. Video capture went live on the laptop screen, showing Arya and Jon the inside of an empty men’s restroom.

“I’m going to assume you can hear me,” said Varys.

“We can.” Jon perked up. “Your mic’s—”

“I can’t hear you, though.”

“Hah.” Arya pointed at Jon, mockingly.

“Forgive me for what you’re about to hear,” muttered Varys. “We’re in hostile territory, now.”

He pushed open the bathroom door. Arya marveled at the clear picture from such a tiny camera, silver Bolton logos and dressed-up employees, all eyeing Varys with scrutiny. “Thought you’d use the ladies’ room,” said someone to his right.  _What an asshole,_  thought Arya, but Varys didn't respond and continued to the room at the back of the hall.

Oak doors swung open. Roose Bolton and Cersei Lannister sat across from each other at the CEO’s desk, neither one pleased. The camera dipped low as Varys bowed, coming up as he straightened his back. “Your Grace,” he said in greeting. “Forgive the delay. I trust I’m not late?”

“Right on time,” said Cersei. “As always, your presence is appreciated.” She cradled a glass of wine in her hands and gestured to the chair beside her. “Sit.”

Varys did as she asked. Arya watched the fearsome Roose Bolton scan every bit of Varys he could see. The childless father didn’t look heartbroken over his son’s loss. Only a black tie signified his mourning, but Arya knew rage when she saw it, and it was there, boiling beneath his eyes.

“I wasn’t aware I would be seeing Mr. Bolton as well,” said Varys, “though I should have known given the location.”

“Change of plans.” Cersei sipped her drink. “Not my father’s doing, but he will be pleased, I’m sure.”

Arya tensed, as did Jon. The siblings shared a look of concern before scooting closer together, both knowing the significance of this meeting, the key that would unlock Sansa's future. Arya clutched the Star around her neck.

“So,” said Cersei, a smug grin on painted lips. “Tell us what you’ve learned about Littlefinger. I trust you haven’t disappointed me?”

“Never, Your Grace. Littlefinger has Sansa Stark on a rather tight leash. I believe he is manipulating her to gain the upper hand. To keep you, your father and Mr. Bolton from the Stark fortune.”

Roose’s voice was sharp like a blade. “Littlefinger informed me before the queen’s gala that money isn’t what he’s interested in. Not the Stark money, at least.”

“Do you truly believe that?” Varys folded his hands in his lap. “He wouldn’t be one of the richest men in the country if he wasn’t interested in money. Ned Stark’s fortune would make him unstoppable.”

“It would make any of us unstoppable.” Cersei tapped her glass. “That is why it must be ours and not his. I won’t let that little wretch interfere. The Starks have too much set aside for us to let it pass on.”

“Jews,” said Roose. “Always good with money. Their only gift.”

Arya clenched her fist.

“Unfortunately for Ned Stark, he fit the stereotype.” Cersei turned to Varys. “But that tells me nothing. What have you actually learned, Varys? I need answers.”

Varys cleared his throat. “I believe Littlefinger is sexually involved with Miss Stark.” Arya could picture the look of annoyance on his face, mirroring her own. “I have no evidence to suggest she is unwilling.”

“Then he managed to do what Ramsay could not.” Roose sighed. “I’m not surprised. Ramsay had his own way of doing things, but he got results, and clearly consensual sex has gained Littlefinger no ground in the Stark fortune. Unless he’s fooled her into believing he’s in love?”

“Oh, I hope she’s smarter than that,” Varys replied. “Littlefinger is devoted to no one but himself. Then again, I’ve a hard time believing Ros would allow an innocent girl to be used in such a way. She’s the only one working with Littlefinger who has a conscience.”

“I don’t care about a whore’s conscience, Varys.” Cersei leaned over the arm of the chair to intimidate him. Smile thin, fingers flexed. “Sansa Stark killed my son. Don’t bore me with useless information about who Littlefinger spends his time with, because I don’t care. I didn’t pay you to tell me things I already know.”

“Not good,” muttered Arya.

Varys’s grip tightened in his lap as Jon’s did on Arya’s hand. He took a deep breath, and spoke condemning words. “Myranda Smith did not kill your son, Mr. Bolton. Littlefinger and Sansa Stark murdered him. Together.”

Arya felt her chest collapse.

“My son,” said Roose, calm and hateful all at once. “Littlefinger murdered my son?”

“Yes. But I believe Miss Stark pulled the trigger.”

Roose pushed up from his chair and began to pace. Cersei seemed pleased, wearing a wicked smile that made Arya want to break the screen. Jon wrapped an arm around Arya’s shoulders. The siblings held tight to each other, neither knowing where to go or what to do.

“Olenna Tyrell threatened me the other day,” said Roose. “Told me to resign. She’d discovered my connection to Walder Frey’s sex trafficking ring and used it against me.”

“Why on earth were you involved in that?” questioned Cersei, not in disapproval.

“I had to keep Walder happy. I needed his investments to save my company. There was a time when he spared me from bankruptcy, and as much as I loathed him, I needed him.” Roose stopped pacing. “Now he’s gone. Killed by Littlefinger too, I expect. Just like my son.”

“Your  _batshit_  son,” Arya corrected, even though Roose couldn’t hear her. “Your crazy killing rapist son. He deserved it.”

Jon didn’t reply, but Arya knew he agreed.

“Whoever did kill Walder Frey has vanished,” said Varys, “seemingly without a trace. As for Littlefinger, that is all I know at the present time. Though I’m sure there’s more to this little puzzle.” His tone had changed. Arya heard it — once confident, now unsure.

“You’ve done well, Varys. I knew I could rely on you.” Cersei pulled a check from her inner coat pocket, which Varys took. Arya’s spirit sank.  _What am I supposed to feel?_

“If Littlefinger thinks he can ruin me so easily, he is mistaken.” Roose adjusted his tie, eyes on the queen. “He wants me to resign, I expect. Gladly. Let him believe he’s won for now. We’ll—”

Cersei cleared her throat. “Perhaps our dear friend Varys should leave before we discuss what to do with Littlefinger.”

“Shit,” Jon whispered. “I wanted to hear that.”

“Why?” asked Arya.

“Because. Whatever they do to Littlefinger, they do to Sansa too. They’re tied now.” He turned to her. “Regardless of how we feel about him, Sansa obviously likes him. She’ll be hurt by whatever happens.”

“Or maybe he’ll hurt her to save himself,” said Arya.

Jon shook his head. “If he does, I’ll kill ‘im.”

Varys bowed before the queen, leaving the office. “Did you notice how he didn’t say ‘is name, either?” said Jon.

“Whose?”

“Littlefinger’s. Varys knows 'is name is Petyr and all about his relationship to your mum, but he didn’t say anythin'. Seems vital.”

Arya rested her chin in her hand. “Yeah. That’s weird.” She remembered Varys claiming to respect Littlefinger deeply, but that didn’t mean it was worth lying to protect him. Did it?

“Either way,” Jon continued, “this doesn’t look good for any of us. Especially Sansa. We need to get to ‘er as soon as we can.”

“Not if Littlefinger has anything to say about it.” Arya leaned back in her seat, watching Varys leave the front doors of the Bolton building. She buckled her seatbelt. “Maybe we’ll just have to take him out.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

 _If it keeps Sansa safe,_  Arya thought,  _I’ll pull the trigger myself._

Displeased with the turn of events, Arya blew a bubble from her chewing gum and popped it. She watched Varys take a turn down an alley. The parking garage was across the street. He didn’t say anything to them through the mic, walking quicker than usual.

A figure moved toward him from the end of the alley. Varys stopped. Arya did too.

“Varys, Varys, Varys,” said a sultry voice. “You’ve really fucked up this time.”

The figure was a woman. Her skin was dark, head crowned in dozens of braids tied up in a bun. She was dressed like a businesswoman, but her tone and American accent suggested a different line of work.

“Who is that?” Arya panicked.

“I don’t know.” Jon took out his phone and snapped a picture of the woman on the screen, trying to Google her. No results.

Varys chuckled. “Ms. Washington,” he said in greeting. “I didn’t think you were the type to wander in places like this.”

Footsteps halted behind him. Varys turned. Littlefinger’s face was warped with anger, a stare so focused that Arya's skin crawled. She felt Varys’s fear and whispered,  _“fuck.”_

“I didn’t think you were the type to betray a contract, Varys.” Littlefinger folded his hands in front of him, legs apart. “What am I going to do about that?”

“Intimidation is useless, my friend,” defended Varys. “Lying to Cersei Lannister was far more dangerous. I’m sure you can agree.”

“Not in this case.”

The woman struck. First with a fist, then her knee, slamming Varys’s head against the brick wall. He fell to the ground. Arya jumped as the camera rolled out of Varys’s pocket and across the concrete. It came to a stop at an odd angle, but Arya could see blood pouring from Varys’s face, between his fingers when he held his nose. Littlefinger moved beside him. His shoes were all she saw. “You signed my contract, Varys. Did you think providing me with Harrold Hardyng and Vargo Hoat fulfilled that deal? You were supposed to help me protect Sansa and ensure the Bolton-Lannister downfall. Now, you’re aiding them.”

“Cersei came to me,” Varys said, still calm and aloof as though nothing had gone wrong. He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the two figures towering over him. Arya remembered his words — _stay in the car_ — and hated him for it. “I did what I did for the safety of the Starks, and for this country. Their fortune in your hands would see Europe bleed.”

“Europe is already bleeding,” snarled Littlefinger, “and I don’t recall you coming to Ned Stark’s aid before. Would you like to explain that to his children? How you so eagerly stood by and did nothing when their family was being picked apart?”

“You joined me on the sidelines,” spat Varys.

“Yes, I did. The Starks didn’t interest me then.” Littlefinger crouched to Varys’s level, draping the ground with his coat. Arya could see the silver in his hair, his hateful smile, the twist of his lips when he spoke. “But they do now. And because of you, everything I've worked for has been undone. The timing is all off. The day Sansa turns eighteen, she will be in more danger than either of us can predict.”

“You have never cared about the girl’s safety.” Varys pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to stop his bleeding. “You’re only using her. Admit it.”

 _Yes,_  thought Arya, seeing red.  _Say it._

“I have no interest in her fortune,” said Littlefinger. “There is nothing Ned Stark’s money can give me that I don’t already have. But now that you’ve pitted Roose Bolton and the Lannisters against me much too soon, well…” He spread his hands. “Things are about to change.”

“Kill me, then. If I’ve ruined your every plan, kill me and be done with it. Why wait?”

“Because you’ve played your cards well. It is the one thing that will save you.”

Littlefinger stood. He walked out of view for a moment, until the camera began to rise. Arya froze when he looked right into the lens she couldn’t find, grey-green eyes staring her down.

Jon squeezed her hand so tight she thought it would break.

“Let me make something clear to both of you,” said Littlefinger. “You were never supposed to fall into Varys’s hands. He betrayed me. Went behind my back. As a result, the puppet strings are tangled up in knots, and you will have to wait even longer to see Sansa again.”

“Fuck you,” Arya growled. “You can’t take my sister from me.” But Littlefinger couldn’t hear her, and he  _could_  take Sansa. She felt like crying.

“If I am to burn the Lannisters and Boltons to the ground, I will need the both of you at full health. Sansa's birthday is only two months away. Expect me when the time comes. Until then, enjoy peace while you can.” Littlefinger sneered. “And don’t worry about your sister. I will keep Sansa very,  _very_  close.”

Arya lunged for the car door. Jon wrapped his arms around her waist and held her back. “No, Arya! You can’t leave!”

“I don’t care!” she shouted. “He can’t have her, he can’t!”

“He already does.” Jon held her tight until she stopped flailing. Arya’s anger was lanced with a feeling of hopelessness, her throat on fire.

_I’m never going to see her again._

“I have a gift,” said Littlefinger. From his suit jacket he pulled a dog bone, still with the price tag. “For your pet.” He threw it, and the pen, at Varys’s feet. The video feed began to crack and shake from the damaged lens, but Arya heard their footsteps as the two enemies walked away.

Two more names on her list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, this 3am "edit the chapter last minute before it publishes" nonsense has gotta stop fam i am TIRED  
> OKAY BUT ANYWAY WOW, DEVELOPED PLOT, THINGS ARE HAPPENING, PETYR IS A DICK  
> And we've hit intermission! Or, halfway point. Whatever. IT'S HERE.  
> This is the end of ~part two I guess! Which means I get to take a much, much-needed break. My life is wild rn (as anyone who follows me on tumblr would know) and I could use an extra week to queue up some chapters and get some sleep, and focus on upcoming finals. Ugh, winter break is right around the corner. I can smell it.  
> This chapter has me like, ~~meh because I wrote it super fast, and I'm at one of those points where I'm thinking, "wow. My writing is total garbage." But someone out there likes this story so I should probably continue, yeah? And things are just getting exciting, too.  
> okok im sleeping for real this time  
> Next update will be **December 17th.** I might do another gifset if asked but idk, i'm tired and sad and TIRED, but also I'm a pushover, so if you yell at me I'll probably do it. I'm also down for answering questions on [tumblr](http://liittlefinger.tumblr.com) if you guys have some. You're an awfully talkative bunch, and I love that, so hmu!  
>  OK IM SLEEPING WOW SLEEP, WHAT A CONCEPT  
> GOODNIGHT LOVELIES, see you after the break!! xoxo


	18. Porcelaine, Ivoire, Acier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[quelqu'un m'a dit; carla bruni](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=na-GFi4XaW0)] ◆ [[titanium; madilyn bailey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGoCtJzPHkU)]   
> 

  
**11 FEBRUARY, 2017**

“I don’t know, Mayana. Do you think it’ll be too cold?” Sansa raised her shoulder, exposed from an oversized sweater that hung loosely off her frame. Simple leggings and flat knee-high boots, hair up in a bun. “It’s still winter. And what if Prince Renly meets us at the airport? I’ll be so underdressed.”

Ros leaned against the door of Petyr’s walk-in closet — more like a small bedroom, really — which Sansa now shared. Mayana reclined on the ottoman in the center. “I think it’s adorable,” said Ros. “Who cares what you’re wearing? Renly won’t. He’ll be too busy arguing with Petyr over _his_ fashion choices anyway.”

“You’re probably right.” Sansa grabbed her purse from beside Mayana and slung it over her shoulder. “I think I’m ready.” She clapped her hands in excitement. “I’ve never been to Paris before! It’s like a dream come true.”

“Paris is nice,” said Mayana, propping up on her elbows. She waggled her brows suggestively. “Especially for a two-week vacation with your man. You’ll get to see everything.”

Sansa beamed, giddy at the thought. Even if the United Nations conference would take Petyr’s attention away for a bit, she’d been promised the company of Prince Renly and Loras Tyrell in his absence. That certainly wasn’t a loss in her books.

“Put your hair down, love.” Ros pointed to Sansa’s bun. “You know how Petyr likes your hair. If it’s down, maybe your arrival at the hotel will be… sexier.”

Mayana snorted. “I do not envy the maids cleanin’ that suite when y’all leave.”

“Sansa?” called Petyr from downstairs. “Are you ready?”

“I’m coming!” Sansa grabbed her rolling suitcase by the handle, pausing a moment to consider Ros’s advice. She pulled her hair from the bun. Long strands of Irish red tumbled down her back, and Sansa smirked, knowing how Petyr would react. “Thanks, Ros. Ah! I’m so excited.” She burst into a fit of giggles.

“You deserve it. You really do.” Ros gave Sansa a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You have fun. Call me when you’ve landed.”

“I will.” Sansa moved to Mayana and embraced her as well.

“You better update your Snap and Insta, girl. I wanna see all the pictures.” Mayana brushed a flyaway hair from Sansa’s face. “Tell me all the embarrassing shit Pete does, too. He’s gonna be a mess on Valentine’s Day. He’s a fucking sap.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” laughed Ros.

Sansa followed the two women with her luggage, fighting to heave the massive thing downstairs. Olyvar saw her struggling and rushed to meet her, taking the suitcase and hoisting it over his shoulder with ease. Petyr stood in the doorway. He was wearing a simple half-zip sweater and slacks, something comfortable for travel. Sansa smiled when she saw him. As expected, Petyr ogled the red hair she’d left wild.

Olyvar returned from the car, passing Petyr entirely to place both hands on Sansa’s upper arms. “Make sure to keep up on everything,” he said. “Don’t let Petyr distract you from your studies or workbooks. And make sure you stay hydrated; all that tourism takes a toll on the skin if you don’t take care of it.”

Sansa chuckled. All three of them reminded her of her mother sending Robb off to college for the first time. She said her final goodbyes, and with Petyr’s hand on her back, Sansa left the manor and climbed into the Bentley’s passenger seat.

The drive to Heathrow was fairly short. Sansa watched planes take off when they were close enough, making up stories for the passengers and their destinations. “That one’s going to Spain,” she said, pointing to an aircraft that sped to the skies. “It carries an eager Spanish lover returning to his bride. He’s been in London working, but now he has enough money to buy her a proper ring. He’s going home to propose to her.”

“What about the other eighty-five people?” Petyr asked from the driver’s seat.

Sansa faced him. “How do you know there are eighty-five?”

“I don’t. It was a guess, but that’s the usual capacity for a craft like that.” Petyr glanced out the window to see Sansa’s plane once they came to a stoplight. He was close enough for Sansa to smell him, the cigarette smoke on his collar, his aftershave, his natural musk. “Regardless, I’m sure it doesn’t just carry that poor Spanish boy. It would be a lonely flight.”

“He wouldn’t care, though. He’s got a girl worth waiting for.”

Sansa smiled when he looked at her. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, and he held her hand for the rest of the drive.

Heathrow Airport wasn’t crowded on a February morning just cresting afternoon. Petyr and Sansa checked in their luggage and walked together through security. When the two of them found their terminal, they decided to pass the remainder of their time by exploring nearby shops and stores. Petyr had seen them all in his travels, but Sansa hadn’t been to the airport since she’d gone to Bran’s bar mitzvah in Israel, so she was curious to see what had changed. They bought coffee and talked about their trip, flipped through some magazines, bought a couple donuts. Sansa sent Jeyne silly selfies via Snapchat when their boarding time came close. She even waved to a few bystanders sneaking pictures of her. She had nothing to fear from strangers who’d made it past airport security. Not when she had Petyr by her side.

First class was the only way Petyr travelled. Sansa had laughed at him when she'd noticed that the flight was only an hour and a half long, wondering why he’d pay extra for luxury on so short a trip, but Petyr wouldn’t change his mind, so Sansa dropped the issue. She settled into her seat when they boarded the plane and reclined after takeoff to get comfortable.

“Will you show me the dress yet?” asked Sansa after a half hour had passed, reaching across the armrest to touch Petyr’s shoulder. “You keep saying I’m going to love it, but I want to see a picture. Please?”

“That will ruin the surprise.” Petyr grinned, bookmarking his page in a political novel. “The United Nations are a boring bunch, sweetling. You’ll be grateful for a little fun.”

Sansa hoped so. When Petyr had pitched the idea of attending Margaery Tyrell’s charity dinner to benefit the United Nations, Sansa hadn’t been sure why Petyr was interested. It wasn’t until he mentioned that the proceeds benefitted UN efforts in preventing violence against women that she understood. The conference, a week-long delegation on the worldwide crisis of domestic abuse, would be supported by Petyr’s presence and investments. There was also a political advantage for him, having so many ambassadors in one place. And how could Sansa say no to  _Paris?_

Sansa bundled up with more episodes of Buffy for the majority of the flight. By the time they landed, her stomach had twisted into a thousand knots. So many world leaders, celebrities and journalists in one room talking about something she was too familiar with. The possibilities haunted her. She tried to keep calm through the ride from the airport to their suite, holding tight to her hands.

Sansa didn't see much of Paris through the car window, but she would have time in the weeks to come, and the Highgarden Hotel was a masterpiece on its own. Onyx and marble, silk drapes and a quartz fountain. Aside from being one of the richest European families, the Tyrells had launched a widely successful hotel chain where many of the dignitaries would stay for the charity dinner. “It’s incredible,” Sansa commented. “It’s like I’m walking into Buckingham Palace all over again.”

“Wait until you see the suite,” said Petyr.

After checking in, Petyr led Sansa to the elevator, rising to the highest floor. Ivory hallways and golden doors branched off the fifteenth story. With a swipe of a key card, the couple was granted entry to their private room.

The suite was fit for royalty, far beyond the likes of Sansa. A full kitchen and bar, a living room with gilded furniture, gold moulding and emerald accents on white walls, paintings from famous French artists, floor-length curtains, a wide balcony with a view of the Eiffel Tower, a bed bigger than any she’d ever seen and a bathroom to match. “This is where we’re staying?” Sansa asked, facing Petyr in astonishment. “You’re sure?”

“Quite. Do you like it?”

“I — I don’t even know what to say.” She felt small with her rolling suitcase and oversized sweater, like a poor country girl having luxury for the first time. Sansa kicked off her shoes. She ran over and hopped on the bed, giggling as she bounced a few times.

“That’s not very ladylike,” said Petyr, amused. “Jumping on the bed is childish.”

“I’m not a child,” chuckled Sansa when she stood still. Petyr quirked his brow and moved to the edge of the bed. “Don’t be disgusting.” Sansa fell to her knees before him. Her forearms rested on his shoulders when he came near and he pulled her close by the hips.

“I have a few hours to be as disgusting as I want, my love. Dinner doesn’t start until eight.” Sansa hummed when his roaming hands gripped her backside.

“What if I wanted to take a nap?” Sansa pulled away, sitting on her knees. “This bed looks comfortable.”

“We’ll have to break it in before any sleeping occurs.”

Petyr pushed her on her back. Sansa laughed when he crawled on top of her for a kiss, one hand sliding up her side, the other in her hair. Ros had been right about that one, at least. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened their kiss until a knock at the door interrupted them. Petyr pulled away with a huff.

“Who could that be?” Sansa asked.

“Mace Tyrell. Checking to make sure I’m settled, no doubt.” Petyr reluctantly crawled off of Sansa. She sat up to join him, but he turned around, pointed his finger at her and spoke in a tone equally seductive and commanding.  _“Don’t. Move.”_

Sansa bit her lip. She watched Petyr open the door. “Ah, Mr. Tyrell,” he said loudly to assure Sansa there was no danger. She heard a few words from an older voice, and became disinterested in the conversation. Sansa pulled her phone from her pocket. Olyvar had texted her.

_Did you land alright? How do you like the hotel? - O_

Sansa smiled, quick to respond.  _Yeah! omg, the hotel is GORGEOUS. I feel like a princess._

_Yes! I absolutely love staying with the Tyrells. - O_

_I haven’t met them yet, but I bet they're lovely._

_Margaery will adore you. I hope the dinner goes well. Eat some escargot for me! - O_

Sansa began typing a reply when she heard the door close. She’d barely looked up before Petyr snatched the phone from her hand, tossing it aside on the pillow. His hands pushed her sweater up and he ravished her stomach with kisses. She laughed at how his mustache tickled. “Now,” he said. “Where were we?”

The bed was quickly broken in.

Lazy hours ticked by, filled with snuggling and deep conversation. Sansa managed to take a small nap while Petyr sent some emails. By the time she woke, he was dressed in a tux for the coming dinner, pacing. His phone was at his ear.

“…just make sure he doesn’t come back to London. We don’t need this happening so soon.” Silence. Sansa lifted her head to watch Petyr pace. “I know, Ros. Just get it done.” A pause. “Then I suppose things will have to change.”

 _What is he talking about?_  Sansa climbed out of bed, frowning when he looked at her. His mask slipped on. “Keep me updated,” said Petyr, and he hung up the phone. “You should start getting dressed, sweetling. We're expected downstairs in a little less than two hours.”

“Is everything okay?” Sansa asked.

“Of course.” He pulled the mockingbird pin from his pocket and pointed to the tie around his shoulders. “Put these on for me?”

Sansa allowed herself to smile. She tied his light pink tie around his neck and fastened the mockingbird in its place, admiring his allure. “An interesting color choice,” she said. “I like it. Black tux, white shirt, pink tie. Very chic.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He brought her hands to his lips for a kiss. “I’m going to find Margaery, see if she needs my assistance.”

“Okay.” Sansa trusted Petyr; he’d assured her that his past relations with Margaery Tyrell would never interfere with his devotion to her. “Oh! Wait, what about the dress?”

“In the bathroom, hanging up.” He smirked. “It was in my suitcase the entire time. Shame you didn’t think to look there.”

Sansa playfully smacked his arm. “You’re such a sneak. I was so excited to pick it up.”

“Go look, then. It’s waiting for you, as I will be.” Petyr moved for the door. He gave Sansa one final grin over his shoulder, and left.

Sansa was alone with her doubts. Whatever Petyr had said to Ros involved something important, and she wanted to talk about it, but she filed the information away instead. She could ask him later. There were more important things on her mind, happier things. Sansa rushed to the master bathroom and flipped on the lights.

A light pink dress hung up near the shower. The chiffon gown cinched at the waist and flowed to the floor, light as air. Bishop sleeves and a deep V neck kept the modesty Sansa prized, but still stated the elegance that Petyr adored in her.  _He knows me so well._

Sansa spent time curling her hair and putting on makeup, nothing too dramatic, and made sure her diamond earrings still sparkled. She slipped her feet into gold heels that matched her Star of David, and with a final spray of perfume, she was ready. Physically, at least. She still didn’t know what to expect from the charity dinner, from strangers discussing something she’d lived through as though they could relate. She left the suite and found the elevator, pushing the button with hands that shook.

The conference hall of the Highgarden Hotel was crowned with golden roses and hanging vines, a symbol of the coming spring, so opposite the bitter winter still present outside. Sansa craned her neck to look up at painted ceilings and a statement crystal chandelier. French reporters asked her questions that she didn’t understand, so she passed through them with polite smiles and little waves, ignoring how anxious being crowded made her feel. She was relieved to enter the dining area, restricted to guests only, but there was little peace to be had. Her name had become famous, along with her story. She was instantly surrounded.

It was strange to be treated as a celebrity, but even stranger to be stared at. Some of the guests spoke to Sansa with confidence, which she appreciated, but most were wary to shake her hand or speak plainly, like she was dynamite rigged to explode with a wrong move. Those who prodded into her trauma made her feel sick altogether. She fled those conversations more often than not, sometimes without warning, doing what was necessary to preserve the small sanity she’d restored. The dinner had yet to begin, and already Sansa wished for the comfort of another nap.

“Miss Stark!” came a call. A bubbly blonde approached her, more beautiful than any woman Sansa had ever seen. Her doe eyes were bright and cheerful, complimented by a slightly immodest crimson gown. “Forgive me for startling you. I picked you out of the crowd, it wasn't hard with that gorgeous red hair.”

“Oh,” said Sansa. “Thank you.” She offered her hand, knowing who the woman was. “You must be Margaery Tyrell.”

“I am. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.” Margaery came forward and gave Sansa a hug. The contact was surprising, but Sansa didn’t feel threatened and hugged her gently in return. Margaery beamed when she pulled away. “I was so sorry to hear about the death of your family. I hope my grandmother is helping you as much as she can.”

“Your grandmother?” Sansa asked. The connection dawned on her. “Oh, the Foreign Secretary! I’m sorry, I didn’t think about the last name.”

Margaery was forgiving. “Don’t worry. She wouldn’t take offense, I'm sure.”  _She’s so joyful and beautiful,_  thought Sansa when Margaery took her arm, leading her to a table near the stage.  _No wonder Petyr likes her._

“Do you mind if I sit with you and Littlefinger tonight?” asked Margaery. “Not just me, of course. My brother and Renly will join us.”

“Of course not,” said Sansa. “I’d be honored to dine with you.”

“Wonderful.” Margaery touched Sansa’s hair affectionately, the way Petyr would. “I’ll find Littlefinger and tell him you’re here. Please, take a seat. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“Thank you so much.” Sansa watched Margaery leave, taking a hesitant sip of water and sitting down.

More dignitaries came to speak to her. Strangers offered their condolences and words of support. Sansa appreciated them, but she tired of being nothing but someone to pity. She had no desire to hear Ramsay’s name, let alone speak of him, and even comments with good intentions were uncomfortable.  _I shouldn't be so sensitive._

A hand on her shoulder saved her from another awkward conversation. Sansa reached back to take Petyr's hand. “The event will begin soon,” said Petyr to Sansa’s guest. “Perhaps you could come by later.”

He didn’t give the stranger time to reply. Petyr stood between Sansa and the other person until they left. Petyr brushed her cheek with his thumb, asking without words if she was alright. Sansa nodded.  _I’m okay._

“You look beautiful,” he told her, eyeing her dress with a touch of desire. His fingertips grazed her arm. “The color is perfect. It suits you.”

“And you managed to guess my measurements correctly,” she pointed out, resting her shaking hand on his knee when he sat down. “I wonder how you managed to do that.”

Petyr caught her joke, and her fear. He placed a hand on her shoulder and kissed her. Sansa let the taste of him calm her, of cigarettes and mint and all that he was, and when he pulled away, she’d stopped trembling. “I hate it when I shake,” she said quietly. “Robb’s hands used to do that too. Whenever he was anxious.”

“Don’t worry. I will be a rock for you, if you need one.”

“I know.”

He squeezed her hand.

Loras Tyrell and Prince Renly joined them at the table when the guests began to settle in. Sansa was too anxious to pay mind, keeping still with her hands in her lap when the speeches began.

Margaery Tyrell took the stage first. She stood at the podium with dignity and thanked those who applauded her. “On behalf of the United Kingdom and the great country of France, I would like to welcome you all to the United Nations charity dinner for victims of domestic violence. I have worked hard within my position in the UN to accomplish the end of this worldwide crisis, and I am confident that cooperative progress can be made over these next seven days of delegation.”

More applause. Sansa clapped too, but she was still uncomfortable, shifting in her seat, unable to find a position that would relax her.

Margaery opened the dinner with a few jokes and acknowledgments of political appointments, an overview of statistics for the good works the UN had done, and a list of feats still to accomplish. She talked about where the money from the charity was going and how long the road to recovery can be for women who are abused. Sansa halfway listened, trying to keep occupied in her mind to escape the feeling of being a victim. It paralyzed her. She sat in a room full of people who supported her, but none of them really understood.

It wasn’t until she saw the first guest speaker that Sansa started paying attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Margaery, “I proudly introduce you to survivor, author and activist, Lollys Stokeworth.”

Applause. A woman walked onstage and shook hands with Margaery. She was larger, older and simpler with long dark hair and equally dark eyes. She took the podium with an aura of humility that Sansa admired. She felt connected to her across the room, even though they’d never met.

Lollys shared her story. She’d been on her way home from school six years ago, on a college campus, when a group of drunk men dragged her into an alley and took turns raping her. She’d contracted two STDs and wound up pregnant from the assault, but because of the support she’d found through UN-sponsored agencies and friends and family, she was able to receive the intense psychiatric and physical treatment that she needed. Much to Sansa’s surprise, she’d even kept her son, despite how the baby had been conceived. Lollys wasn’t eloquent, nor was she the brightest speaker, but she was a woman who’d survived and offered hope to others through charity and good works.

Sansa felt like crying. She wasn’t so alone anymore.

When the speech was through and the dinner begun, Sansa didn’t eat. She went straight to Lollys Stokeworth. “Hi,” said Sansa meekly.

“Hello,” said Lollys, recognizing Sansa.

The two women embraced. Sansa managed to keep tears at bay, hugging a bit too long, but Lollys didn’t mind. She pulled away with a nervous smile. “Your story was inspiring. I've never heard it before, but I really admire you. Thank you for having the courage to share.”

“Thank you. And you're welcome.” Lollys's silly grin brought warmth to Sansa's heart. “Your story inspires me, too. You're so strong. I have to sit down now, but I want you to know that people look up to you, so don't give up. No matter how hard it is.”

Lollys squeezed Sansa's hands. Sansa squeezed back, filled with determination. “I won't.”

The interaction was brief, but it meant the world to her. Sansa returned to Petyr’s side with the confidence she’d misplaced.

Dinner was exquisite. Blanquette de veau, coquilles Saint-Jacques, baked camembert and buckwheat crêpes, with Beaujolais or sauvignon to drink. Sansa made sure to send Olyvar a picture of the escargot she’d promised to try.  _Tastes like chicken,_  she told him,  _and I love the little forks. Thanks for the suggestion! <3_

Throughout the dinner, Sansa was pulled from one conversation to the next, between Margaery and Prince Renly’s fashion debates to Loras’s opinions on Hollywood. Petyr and Margaery had a rather heated discussion on American politics and Renly showed Sansa pictures of his favorite crown jewels. New friends, safety, socializing and laughter with Petyr by her side. Sansa couldn't think of anything better.

When the dinner came to an end, guests were allowed to mingle while trays of desserts were handed out. Cream puffs and soufflés, sweet crêpes and chocolate-covered strawberries. Sansa plucked one from a tray and bit into it, smiling at Petyr from across the hall. He was deep in a conversation with Margaery. She tossed the end of the strawberry in a waste bin and made to approach them.

“Sansa Stark?” said a voice from behind her. A woman, well-dressed with a pleasant smile, offered her hand. “My name is Taena Merryweather. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sansa shook the woman’s hand. “You as well,” she said politely. “I’ve never heard your name before. What do you do?”

“I’m self-employed,” said Taena, pulling long dark hair over her shoulder. “My husband works in law enforcement. He greatly admired your father, you know. As many of us did.”

“Thank you.” Sansa was tired of being reminded of her father's absence. “He was a wonderful man. I’m sure he would be pleased to hear of your husband’s praise.”

“Mm,” Taena agreed. “It’s a shame that they never got to meet. I believe they would have liked each other.” Taena motioned for Sansa to come with her. “Have you tried the champagne? It’s exquisite, the French always make the best. Come. I’ll get you a glass.”

Taena walked with Sansa to the nearest waiter, who offered them fresh glasses. Sansa took hers gratefully. Her eyes wandered the room, trying to find Petyr again in the mass of leaders and dignitaries. He was nowhere to be found.

“I’m sure you value justice, don’t you Miss Stark?” asked Taena. “With your father’s occupation and all.”

“Yes,” said Sansa warily. “I do.”

“You must be disappointed that Ramsay Bolton never got to face a judge.” Taena sighed. “You did good by running away. Living in that hell must’ve been terrifying.”

“It was.” Sansa didn’t feel like drinking anymore. She quickly changed the subject. “This ballroom is incredible—”

“Of course, Ramsay deserved more than a long trial. The things he did to you, the way he made you suffer, so horrid.” Taena looked into Sansa’s eyes. “Do you wish he would have gotten justice from the law?”

Sansa blinked. “I don’t—”

“Surely there would have been enough evidence. DNA on your clothes, sexual fluids, torn tissue, bruises. _If_  Littlefinger managed to have you examined.” Taena was relentless, not noticing Sansa’s shiver. “Perhaps that was why you had Ramsay killed?”

Sansa’s fear flipped to anger. She gripped her champagne glass tightly. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” she spat. Her voice had grown louder. Nearby heads turned to her attention, and Taena Merryweather shrunk under the spotlight, not expecting a Sansa that would fight back. “You’re trying to get a statement from me. Who hired you? How did you find me? What do you want?”

“Miss Stark,” Taena sputtered, “surely if I said the wrong thing—”

“No. Don’t apologize.” Sansa shoved her drink into Taena’s hands, so hard that the liquor spilled. “Leave.”

Sansa stormed away.

She pushed open the balcony door. No one dared follow her, in part because of her frustration, but mostly from the harsh winter cold that made the outdoors unbearable. Sansa shuddered and held herself, biting back tears and hating her fragility. She’d come so far, healed so many wounds only to have memories of abuse pick at the scabs until she bled again. _Fluids, torn tissue, bruises…_

“Sansa?”

She turned at the sound of her name. Petyr was leaning against the wall near a potted plant, smoking cigarettes with Margaery. He came to her side. His warm hand was welcome on her skin. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “I just — it’s nothing, I-I’m okay, I’m fine…”

“No you’re not. Tell me what happened.”

Sansa couldn’t speak. She gripped his suit jacket and clenched her eyes shut, feeling wave upon wave of panic surge through her until she choked. Petyr pulled her close — or did he? She couldn’t tell — and the thunder of her heart overwhelmed her senses as she trembled. She willed herself to be calm, to push through hyperventilation and paralyzing fear, but she knew the attack would have to be endured before it would pass. When Sansa finally relaxed, she found herself still in Petyr’s arms, exhausted. A worried Margaery Tyrell brushed her hair from her face.

“Did someone say something to you?” asked Margaery, frowning. “I was sure that nobody would, considering the nature of the event.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “It was just, just a journalist I think.” She pieced together what she could, her head on Petyr’s shoulder. “Someone must’ve hired her to get me to say something about Ramsay.”

“What was her name?”

“Taena Merryweather.”

“Oh.” Margaery scoffed. “I’ve had run-ins with her in the past. She’s Cersei’s pet. I’m so sorry she bothered you, Sansa. If I’d known she was here I would’ve stopped her immediately. She wasn’t on the guest list.”

“Cersei’s doing,” said Petyr, chest vibrating with his voice. “Don’t worry about hiding what we did from Margaery, sweetling. She knows.”

“And so does Cersei, apparently.” Margaery placed a protective hand on the back of Sansa’s head. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.” She flashed Petyr a dangerous look, and left the lovers alone on the balcony.

Sansa decided that she liked Margaery Tyrell.

Petyr shed his suit jacket and wrapped it around Sansa’s shoulders. “What did this woman say?” he asked, lifting her chin to make her look at him. “Do I need to dispose of her?”

“No. It — it wasn’t too bad, just questions about Ramsay.” Sansa placed her hands on his chest to steady herself. “I freaked out. I thought she was going to arrest me or something, and the words she used just… brought back memories.” She sighed. “I should be better than this.”

“Better than what? You are human, my love, and you were threatened.”

“But I shouldn’t be back at this point.” Frustrated tears returned. “I shouldn’t be so afraid to talk about it with people, but I can’t. I’m not ready yet. I’m just not.”

“No one will make you speak, Sansa. No one can.” He pulled her closer. “You’re still anxious. Why don’t you go back to our room? I won’t keep you here, it was never my intention for you to be upset.”

“I know. It’s been a good night, really, it has.” Sansa leaned into Petyr’s arms and let him rub her back. She sniffled and wiped her cheek. “I hate feeling like I’ve fallen back again.”

“Shh,” whispered Petyr, stroking the back of her head. “He is gone, Sansa. I know what happened to you is not, but you will overcome this feeling as you have all the others. You are stronger than you know.”

He rubbed her shoulders in parting. Sansa returned his jacket to him, smiling under his care, and walked into the building.

Sansa sighed when she was back in the hotel room. She took a moment to stand still, leaning against the door, eyes closed to find peace. She found it, but being alone meant it wouldn’t stay for long. Sansa busied herself with taking off her makeup and changing into warm pajamas. She put on one of the offered bathrobes made of the softest fabric, slipped her feet into fuzzy slippers, and grabbed her phone. A quick connection to wi-fi, and she called Jeyne for a video chat.

Jeyne answered. Sansa saw her best friend, curled hair, happy smile and all. “You have such good timing,” said Jeyne. “I’m walking back from my two-o’clock class. With that bloody biology teacher I hate, you know?” She shook her head. “God, I hate American uni sometimes. How are you?”

“I’m okay.” Sansa paced around the room, still anxious. “Just… I don’t know. The charity dinner went well and it also didn’t go well at all, so. I’m here.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. No problem, I’m the queen of distraction.” Jeyne leaned closer to the screen. “Are you in a fucking palace? Show me around! I’m so jealous, Highgarden Hotels are basically fit for royalty.”

Sansa grinned. “Oh, yeah. This place is ridiculous. Hold on, I’ll give you a tour.” She turned the front-facing camera to the suite around her, showing Jeyne the luxury. The art pieces, the paintings, the massive unmade bed, the huge bathroom. “And this isn’t even half of it,” said Sansa. “We’ve got a view of the Eiffel Tower right outside.”

“Ohh! At night? I gotta see this.” Jeyne entered her dorm and leapt onto her bed, settling in for the sight. “Show me, show me!”

Sansa pulled open the drapes covering the balcony doors. She twisted the brass handles and stepped out into the frigid air. Frost clung to the ground and the Eiffel Tower was lit up like a star, complimenting real stars hanging in a navy sky. The moon kept the streets of Paris illuminated in an alabaster glow. “Jeyne, it’s…” Sansa sighed. “It’s beautiful. Look.” She flipped the camera around so her friend could see.

“Wow…” Jeyne trailed off. The girls fell silent together. Sansa rested her elbow on the balcony rail, chin in her hand, wondering if Jeyne knew how much she missed her. Passing cars and distant chatter were all they heard for a while. “This is really something, Sansa. I’m glad you can be able to do this.”

“Me too.” Sansa thought about Lollys Stokeworth. “I feel like I’m getting closer to that light at the end of the tunnel. The one I always knew was there, even when I couldn’t see it. But I think I see it now. It’s right there. Someday, I’ll reach it.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks. I’m proud of me too.” Sansa watched cars stop at a traffic light, shoppers passing by, a couple sitting together in the window of a restaurant. She found purpose, as if God tapped her shoulder. “When I’ve reached that light, do you know what I’m gonna do?”

“Flip the middle finger at Ramsay’s grave?”

“No.” Sansa beamed. “I’m gonna give it back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Help people, Jeyne. I could write a book about what I went through. Make a charity for survivors, build a shelter, speak at universities and social events, maybe even be an ambassador to the United Nations. Give back the light.” Sansa felt liberated just saying the words. “When I’m ready, I’m gonna help victims break their own bars and set themselves free.”

Jeyne didn’t respond for a moment, so long that Sansa wondered whether she’d heard. “That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever said.”

Sansa smiled. She knew she wasn’t ready yet, and may not be for years to come, but there was hope on the horizon clear as the Eiffel Tower before her. “Thanks, Jeyne. Thank you for helping me.”

“Of course. And thanks for letting me help, too.”

She heard the door open. Sansa turned, taking Jeyne’s view with her. “Hey!” called Jeyne. “Turn back around, I wanna see the — oh.”

Petyr had opened the glass doors. He unmade his tie, leaning against the frame with a grin. “Hello Jeyne,” he said. “Forgive me for interrupting.”

“Uh… no! You’re fine.”

Sansa bit back a laugh. She looked down to the camera, knowing her friend’s shocked-to-hell face when she saw it. “Sorry. I didn’t think he’d be back so soon.”

“I can go if you need me to.”

“No,” said Petyr, “that’s alright. You can have Sansa for a few minutes before I steal her from you.” Petyr stepped forward, pulling his tie from his neck and cupping Sansa’s cheek. “Are you feeling better?”

“Mhm.” Sansa placed her hand over his. “Jeyne always makes me feel better.”

“Good.” He kissed her forehead tenderly. “I’m going to get changed for the night.”

“Okay.” Sansa watched him leave, temporarily forgetting that Jeyne was still on the phone.

“That’s  _him?_ ” Jeyne nearly shouted. “Holy shit, Sansa! He’s as old as my dad.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and faced the skyline again. “You knew he was older. I told you that.”

“Well yeah, but — shit. He’s got gray hair and everything. But it looks good. Like, really good.”

Sansa chuckled. “Yeah, it does.” She chewed her lip. “I like his gray hair. He has nice hands, too.”

“I’ve seen them on Instagram.” Jeyne winked. “I see you, twirling your hair like that. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking about.”

“What?” Sansa noticed her free hand, twirling a lock of red hair in her fingers subconsciously, and blushed. “Oh my god.”

“Go get him. I’ll talk to you later.” Jeyne blew Sansa a kiss. “You earned a romantic Parisian vacation, so go start it now!”

Sansa didn’t bother to inform Jeyne that the romance had already begun. She thanked her best friend, said goodbye, and ended the call. She walked back into the suite and shuddered when the warmth from the heater chased away the outside cold.

“Your friend seemed surprised,” said Petyr in amusement. He stepped out of the bathroom and flipped off the lights, wearing the gray sweats Sansa loved him in.

“She’s never seen what you look like before.” Sansa hopped on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs off the edge. “You’re older than she thought you’d be.”

“Am I?” Petyr smirked. “She’s going to have to get used to it.”

He came to her, stepping between her legs and holding her face. Sansa felt her whole body smile. “Are you certain you’re alright? I will have Taena Merryweather taken care of, or anyone else who dares to bother you. I take your protection very seriously.”

“I know.” She placed her hands on either side of his torso. “I’m okay now. I promise.” Sansa slid her hands under his shirt to feel the heat of his skin, the familiar electricity that sparked when they touched. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. I just want to be here, with you. Here is all that matters.”

“Here is all that matters,” he agreed. Petyr leaned down and kissed her sweetly. Sansa laid on her back, crawling to the center of the bed, and Petyr filled her with the pleasure of the present to keep her from the pain of the past. She lay in his arms, counting blessings like the many kisses they shared, and drifted to sleep knowing hope was still a risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made one of my betas cry. <3  
> Okay but wow, this chapter is pretty great, right? Acknowledging that there are still ups and downs in the recovery process is a big deal. It's not all fun and games now that Ramsay's gone. Sansa still has a way to go, and there's still more drama to be had~~~  
> This chapter up through chapter 20 are all sort of an "intermission" section. Still relevant to plot, but kinda like a calm after the storm, and a calm right before a much much larger storm. You've been warned. :)  
> I might skip next Saturday's update too. I know, I just took a two week break, but I've been going through some really hard times lately, not to mention next Saturday is Christmas Eve! We'll see though. I might take a break, I might not. It depends on how I'm feeling throughout the week and how much work I can get done. Just be aware that if I miss next week's update, I needed another break. But! I should be good to go for a while after that, so don't fret!  
> Happy holidays you guys! xoxo I hope you liked this update.


	19. Paradigm Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[panic station; muse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vk24UKKI4yY)] ◆ [[bad girls; m.i.a.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iw3aoIIKPps)]   
> 

  
**13 FEBRUARY, 2017**

Arya pinched her mobile between ear and shoulder, pulling a pair of warm jeans straight from the open dryer. She nearly moaned when she slipped them on. The denim hadn’t been wet or dirty, but Arya had dried them anyway, wanting warm clothes to wear before she faced the outside cold. She moved her phone to her other ear, listening to the repetitive ring and waiting for someone to pick up. _Come on. I know you’re open._

After a few seconds, someone answered.  _“Thanks for calling the Brotherhood, how can I help you?”_

“Beric!” said Arya. “Hey. It’s me again.”

Beric Dondarrion laughed when he heard her voice.  _“Well, well. I didn’t think you’d call twice in the same week.”_

“I just wanted to see how everyone’s doing, I guess.” Arya grabbed her Star Trek tee and pulled it over her head. “You’re not too busy to talk?”

_“Not at all. I can always find time for Beth.”_

Arya smiled. She slipped on fuzzy socks and combat boots, a fur-lined jacket to fight the winter weather. “I got a job.”

_“Yeah? Where at?”_

“Another bar. This one’s run by some woman named Lady Crane. She’s pretty nice. She says I’m her favorite.”

_“I’m not surprised. You know how to make people like you, when you try.”_

“When I feel like it, you mean.” Arya tied her shoes and grabbed a beanie from the counter, shoving the house keys in her pocket. “Hold on a sec, kay?”

_“Sure.”_

Arya lowered the phone from her ear. She turned to Jon, who was laying on the couch in the living room, watching a movie, surrounded by Kleenex and daytime cold medicine. Ghost lifted his head when he saw her by the door. “Bye, Jon. I’m goin’ to work.”

“Okay. Don’t forget to—” Jon sneezed. He blew his nose and coughed a couple times, but Arya was patient. He’d been sick for a week. _Poor guy._ “Take Needle,” he said when he’d regained himself. “Be careful. Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She snatched her dagger from the countertop and stuffed it in the side of her boot. Arya touched the  _mezuzah_  Luwin had given her where it hung in the entryway, kissing her finger with respect, and closed the door.

“Back,” she said to Beric through the phone. “Sorry. I’m just leaving for work.”

_“I should probably let you go, then.”_

“I’ll go in a bit. I wanted to check up on everyone.” Arya unhooked her bicycle from the fence and walked it down the sidewalk, her free hand keeping hold on her mobile. “How’s Yoren doing? And Hot Pie and the others?”

_“Hot Pie’s a fine cook. An odd name he has, but he’s starting to get regular customers comin’ in, so that’s nice. Your little friend Lommy is a great busboy. Yoren keeps the place clean and the kids in line, and he’s got his own place now, so all the children live with him.”_

“That’s great,” said Arya.

_“It is. They all want to start school too, but most of ‘em don’t even know how to read well.”_

Arya lit up with excitement. “I know someone who can help. His name’s Luwin, he’s a teacher in Broughton. He doesn’t have family in the UK anymore, so he could move out to Manchester if he needed to. He’s really good with kids. He’d probably teach them all if you said they were my friends.”

_“You’re sure about that?”_  asked Beric.

“Yeah. He took Jon and I in for Hanukkah, you can trust him.”

Beric laughed.  _“You’re popular for a homeless girl.”_

Arya straightened her shoulders proudly. “It pays off.”

_“It does.”_  Beric moved in his seat. The creak of his chair could be heard through the phone.  _“I should tell you that I hired the other kid whose name you gave me. Gendry Waters.”_

Arya stopped walking. “Gendry,” she repeated. It felt good to say.

_“He’s a good lad. Loyal lad. I hired him on the spot because I trusted your judgment. I’m not disappointed.”_

Arya smiled. Gendry and Yoren and Beric and all her friends, together, was a brighter thought than most. “Is he there now?”

_“No. Doesn’t come in until dinner.”_

“Oh.” Arya shifted her feet. “You should tell him I said hi.”

_“Will do. He misses you.”_  

_I miss him too._  Arya shook her head to chase his memory away. “How’s Sandor? I tried to call the jail and ask for him, but he wasn’t there.” 

Beric’s sigh was heavy.  _“No. He’s not.”_

“Do you know where he is?” Arya’s heart beat faster. “I can pay his bail when we get my dad’s inheritance in a month or so, and then… I don’t know. We’ll have a lot of money. There’s gotta be something I can do.”

_“I don’t think so, kid. No one knows where he is.”_

Arya stopped walking again. “What do you mean?”

_“We had contact with him up until about a week ago, but we haven’t been able to get ahold of him since.”_  Beric cleared his throat.  _“I don’t know where they’ve taken him.”_

Arya didn’t say anything. She felt stupid, rasher than ever for killing Meryn Trant and letting Sandor take the fall. If the Lannisters were targeting people she cared about, they’d have an easy time with all her friends working at the same bar. “Take care of each other,” she said quietly.

_“We will. You keep your eye out, yeah?”_

“You too.”

Arya hung up after a brief goodbye. Was Meryn Trant really important enough to Cersei to kill Sandor in secret? Or was there something else going on?

She couldn’t think about it. Arya stored the grim possibilities away, saving them for Jon and further research when she got home, and hopped on her bike. One problem at a time.

The ride to work was peaceful. Just Arya, the frigid wind, random passersby and Pearl Jam blasting through her earphones. Arya and Jon didn’t live very far from The Theatre, the locally-owned bar she’d been hired at a few weeks past. A ten-minute ride was all it took. Arya parked her bike near the bar’s back door and stepped inside.

“You’re on the floor today, Mercy,” said Lady Crane as Arya grabbed her apron and name tag. “You can take turns with Clarenzo for the bar when he gets here.”

“'Kay.” Arya stuffed her iPod in her pocket with her phone and slipped her apron over her head.

“You alright, sweetheart?” asked Crane, a tall brunette with a kind face. “You seem tired lately. I’m not overworking you, am I? I know uni can be quite hard your first year.”

Arya shook her head. “No, Mrs. Crane. My brother’s just sick at home. His coughing’s been keeping me up.” It wasn’t a total lie. Arya couldn’t come clean about stalking and killing the Queen Mother’s trusted men over the past month, so a half-truth would do. “Just grateful to have a job, really.”

“You’re sweet.” Lady Crane patter her arm. “Go on. Work hard, and maybe I’ll let you off early.”

Eager to earn that dismissal, Arya set to work.

Taking and filling orders was easy. Time went by faster when she kept her mind active. Arya served a few of The Theatre’s guests, thinking of puns to torture Jon with and shows she wanted to catch up on. Hours passed. She came to the bar to serve another round.

“Hey,” she said to a pair of new customers. Arya pulled out her notepad and clicked the pen. “Welcome to The Theatre. What can I…”

She recognized the woman. Dark skin, braided hair. Littlefinger’s friend. Across from her sat another woman Arya didn’t know, with short black hair and a tattoo of a mountain on her upper arm. Arya froze. Both women stared at her, seemingly oblivious. “I’ll have a mimosa,” said the black-haired woman. “And some of those cheesy chips you sell here.”

“Fries,” corrected Littlefinger’s friend. “God. I can’t stand that you call them chips.”

“Get over it, Mayana. You’ve lived in the UK long enough.”

“Mm-mm. I stick to my roots.” She flipped her many braids over her shoulder. Arya watched her, half in disbelief, half in fear.  _Does she even know who I am?_

“Actually, forget the mimosa,” said the other woman. “I think I just want water.”

“Boo. I’ll have the mimosa, then.” Mayana looked at the menu. “I’ll have onion rings too. Ranch on the side. And Mya wants a lemon in her water, but she always forgets to say so.”

“Ugh, true.”

Arya blinked. She jotted down their orders, trying to act as normal as possible while scrambling for a plan. “Anything else?” she asked quietly.

“No, that sounds good.”

“Okay.” Arya flipped her notepad shut. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She walked away as the women began to talk. Her stomach felt like it was floating, unattached from her insides. Arya ripped the piece of paper with their orders from her booklet and slid it back to the chef, drumming her fingers on the counter. Should she say something? Do something? Put poison in Mayana’s mimosa?  _Wouldn’t she love that,_  thought Arya with a grin. But it was Littlefinger who deserved her rage. Arya couldn’t reach him without information. She moved back to the bar and whipped up Mayana’s drink, pouring the girl named Mya some lemon-flavored water. Mayana barely looked twice at her.  _How does she not know who I am?_

Arya rushed back to the kitchen when the bell rang with their food. She placed it on their table and grabbed a rag, staying nearby under the guise of washing tables to hear their conversation.

They were talking about Sansa.

“I don’t know, Mya. She’s really changed things.”

Arya slowed her movements. Mya took a drink of water. “I can tell. Petyr’s weird now. Not in a bad way, but she’s really tamed him. I don’t think he notices.”

“Oh, he does,” Mayana insisted. “He just denies it all the time.”

“Why? Is it really so bad to feel something for somebody?”

Mayana’s tone was burdened. “It is and it’s not. Pete’s gettin’ older, ya know? He deserves to put all this behind him and hand the operation to me, so he can actually live a life. Marry this girl. Settle down. But shitting on people, hoarding money and being shady is all he knows how to do. And when you’re in this line of work, you can’t afford to love people.”

Mya bit into a chip. “He loves you, though.”

Mayana laughed. “That’s different. I’m trained and I know the consequences of this kind of life. But Sansa?” She fell silent for a moment. “If he lost that girl, Mya, it’d tear the world apart. He’d be completely unhinged. And he’d say it was all fine as the country was burning or he’s orchestrating some big war.”

“Jesus,” muttered Mya. “You really think so?”

“Yeah. You know the things he does on the regular. It’d be like that, but worse. Much worse.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. Realizing she’d been idle for too long, she gathered up the dirty dishes and walked them back to the kitchen for washing. The thought of what she was missing frustrated her. She threw the dishes in the sink so she could return to the bar.  _More customers,_  she thought with a huff, noticing the strangers who’d taken seats, waiting to be served. Arya took their orders and mixed a couple drinks, trying and failing to listen to Mayana from a distance. Anticipation made her nauseous. The moment Clarenzo came in to take his shift, Arya wordlessly shoved her orders in his hands. “Take the floor,” she panted, “Crane’s orders. I’m at the bar.” Clarenzo didn’t argue. Arya took her rag to find a spot by the counter again, remaining as inconspicuous as possible.

“Listen,” said Mya. “If Petyr’s really that crazy, are you sure she’s safe with him? Lothor and I will always be his friends, but we worry about her. Everyone does.”

Mayana’s answer was immediate. “There’s no safer place for her. Trust me.” She leaned across the counter to touch her friend’s arm. “Here’s the thing no one understands about Pete. The man’s stable. He’s just ruthless and a little broken. And I know that sounds like it don’t make sense, but it does when you know him like I do.” She pointed to the center of her chest. “He’s got this hole in him. He keeps sayin’ he doesn’t, but he does, and now it’s filled with Sansa. If he protects his money and himself so damn well, why wouldn’t he protect her with just as much, if not more ferocity? He’d burn down nations to keep her safe.” Mayana leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know. Maybe I just understand him because I’ve known him so long.”

“I’m glad he has you,” said Mya. “Not just for his own well-being, but because I know you’d kill him yourself if he went that far off the rails.”

“Damn right I would.”

Arya paused. The version of Littlefinger she was hearing about didn’t match what she’d seen, what she’d grown to hate, and it angered her. Was Mayana trying to fool this Mya person? It was impossible for her claims to be true. The two women moved on to a different topic, but Arya wasn’t thrown off course. She waited until they were done eating, serving them like the good little waitress she was, and took their generous tip with gratitude.

Mya said her goodbyes to Mayana and left. Arya let her go; Mya was innocent as far as she was concerned. Mayana stayed at the counter and sipped her drink, one leg crossed over the other. Ten minutes passed. She checked her phone and picked at the remaining chips, sitting there long after Mya was gone.  _What’s her deal?_  Arya thought.  _Who’s she waiting for?_

Another ten minutes ticked by before Mayana grabbed her purse and walked out. Arya watched her through the windows until she disappeared. “I’m going on break,” she told Clarenzo, throwing her rag and apron over a chair. She left the building before her coworker could call her back.

The sun had set. The streets were cold, but Arya’s adrenaline kept her blood warm. She followed Mayana from a safe distance. She dodged the woman’s backward glances every so often, disappearing behind different objects to stay hidden. Inch by inch, she worked her way closer.

Mayana turned down an empty alley.  _Quick as a snake._  Arya slipped Needle from her boot. When the opportunity came, she snatched Mayana by the arm and slammed her against the concrete wall.

“I know who you are.” Arya held Needle tight against Mayana’s chest. “I know who you work for.”

“You’ve got spirit.” Mayana smiled, amused instead of frightened. “You’re like Sansa that way.”

Arya snarled. She lifted the blade. Mayana caught Arya's wrist and spun her around, pinning her against the wall with her arm behind her back. “Hey!” Arya shouted when Mayana yanked Needle from her hand. She was too restrained to move. Mayana was taller, stronger and faster, and Arya wondered how the hell she'd been disarmed so quickly.

“This is a cute blade,” said Mayana. “Don’t worry. You can have it back when we’re done talking.” She placed Needle in her purse as if it belonged there. “Can we do that? Talk? You don’t wanna fight me, I’m a killer in heels.”

“You don’t scare me,” spat Arya, turning to face her.

“No? That’s okay.” Mayana shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good thing. We’ll be living together before too long.” She ignored Arya’s confusion and motioned for her to follow. “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“I — what? No!” Arya clenched her fists. “I don’t want your stupid food. You’ll probably poison it.”

Mayana laughed. “You’re really not that smart, are you?” She leaned back against the wall, but her expression was far less menacing than it should be. Calm, controlled. Sympathetic.

“You work for Littlefinger,” said Arya.

“Yes.”

“You have my sister.”

“I know.” Mayana frowned. “Believe me, I’m not a fan of that whole setup. But it’s how things have to be for now.”

Arya scoffed. “If you don’t like Littlefinger’s plans, why are you working for him?”

“I have for most of my life. The man’s a complete asshole, but he’s like a brother. I’d never betray him. As for Varys,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “I take it you’re angry about that time I beat him up after he blabbed to Cersei? That was nothing. I should have broken bones, but I didn’t. I really like the guy.”

Arya felt like she was slipping on ice. Mayana was friendly, casual in the way she spoke. Approachable. Arya tried to lunge for Mayana’s purse. The woman held up a finger to stop her. “Nice try. We ain’t done talkin’ yet.”

“I heard you in there,” said Arya, angry all over again. “Talking about Sansa.”

“Of course I was. I had to bait you somehow. Did you think we had her locked up in a dungeon or something?”

_We?_  Arya shifted her feet. “Do you?” 

“Oh, Jesus.” Mayana pulled out her phone. She turned it to Arya when she’d found a picture, a selfie with Sansa alongside another redhead and a blonde boy Arya didn’t know. Sansa looked… happy. She was laughing while Mayana and the others made ridiculous poses with makeup and hair products. “That’s from a couple weeks ago,” said Mayana. She flipped to a photo of Sansa kissing the blonde boy on the cheek. “Olyvar’s birthday,” she explained. “And this one’s from five days ago.” Mayana showed Arya a picture of her and Sansa in a tight embrace, cheeks pressed together, facing the camera with big smiles.

Arya was frazzled. “You — she—”

“She looks happy, right? Because she is.” Mayana pulled the phone away. Arya almost asked to see more. “We love her. Me, Ros, Olyvar, even Littlefinger.”

“You mean Petyr?” shot Arya. “Petyr Baelish?”

Mayana blinked. “How do you—”

“Varys told me.” Arya wore a smug grin, having displaced her enemy. “He knows his name’s Petyr and he knows where he’s from. And Varys says Petyr Baelish only loves himself.”

Mayana clenched her jaw before shrugging off the shock. “Good. That’s exactly what we want people to think.” She put her phone back in her purse in exchange for Needle. Arya reached for it, but Mayana held it high. “Look, kiddo. I know it’s hard to be away from your sister and I know it’s tough to see the big picture. But we’re takin’ care of her. How can I explain it?” Mayana sighed. “She’s kinda like our queen.”

“How can I trust you?” Arya demanded. “How do I know you’re not just using her for my father’s money?”

Mayana rolled her eyes as if the whole notion of wanting money was a joke. “You see this purse? Louis Vuitton. Two grand. I’m wearin’ Gucci and this jewelry’s all fourteen-karat gold. We’re not havin’ money problems, girl. Even if we were, Pete knows how to pull money outta thin air to replace what gets blown.”

“But—” Arya scrambled for offense, something to throw Mayana off and make her admit she was lying. But there was nothing. Mayana couldn’t fake those pictures, why would she? “But Sansa…”

Mayana put a hand on Arya’s shoulder. She flinched, but didn’t flee. “Sansa’s okay. Varys doesn’t want to hear that because he thinks Pete’s some big monster.” Mayana looked away in thought. “I mean, he’s not wrong. But Pete’s not a Bolton-level monster, and he’s not a Lannister either.” She pulled her hand away. “I’m glad you and your brother care enough about Sansa to keep investigating. And you shouldn’t trust Petyr, so you’re already on the right path. But you can trust me. I like you. In a couple weeks, we can all sit down and talk this out. Until then…”

Mayana placed Needle back in Arya’s hands. She pulled a fifty-pound note from her wallet and set it atop the blade. “Here’s an extra tip,” she said with a wink. “See you soon.”

Mayana left, the click of her heels signaling a thousand doubts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAAAAACK, i hope you all had a good holiday!! i did!  
> things are getting kicked the hell OFF in this story omg. Next week's chapter is the last fluffy chapter you'll see for the rest of the fic. It's all downhill from chapter 20 lmfaoooo  
> Mayana met Arya!! god idk what to say anymore I'm just so excited to finally, FINALLY come up on the actual PLOT DRAMA of this damn thing, i've spent so much time building this up, i'm ready for it to explode.  
> see you saturday my loves!!


	20. Cœur Divisé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[heavy shoulders; trace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rz8mp4iSodk)] ◆ [[in the mood; glenn miller](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnvpTjWvQxc)] ◆ [[heal; tom odell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mMx198hMDk)]   
> 

  
**14 FEBRUARY, 2017**

Petyr never slept much, a bad habit for an older man. The wheels in his mind never calmed enough to keep him under for very long. Valentine’s Day was no different. Petyr woke before the sun. He rolled over in bed, making sure Sansa was still asleep before he left her side. A shower and a cup of coffee tided him over until sunrise. He stood on the balcony to watch the horizon, and when the sun crested over the skyline, Petyr returned indoors to shake away the cold.

He sat on the edge of the bed, at Sansa’s side. She was beautiful when she slept, eyes peacefully closed, red hair covering her naked body where the blanket left her exposed. He moved her hair from her shoulder and touched her bare skin. She was warm under his palm. His fingers traced her shoulder blade like a feather. Sansa was a work of art; every time he looked at her, there was something new to admire.

Petyr didn’t know how long he stayed there. When his stomach began to growl, he left Sansa in favor of food. He ordered room service for both of them and put Sansa’s meal in the fridge, for whenever she woke. He pulled out his laptop and typed several emails over breakfast, scanning through the news and picking out headlines of interest. A few pictures of Sansa shopping with Renly and Loras had made the spotlight.  _And the Stark children have been busy_ , Petyr noted, reading another name of a murdered agent Cersei kept close: Balon Swann.  _Varys had better warn those two to be careful,_  thought Petyr,  _before I have to intervene._

Petyr was grateful when he heard Sansa stir. She yawned, a little squeal that made him grin, and padded into the room. Sansa was wearing one of the bathrobes tied loosely around her waist, messy hair falling every which way. She smiled when she saw him. Petyr returned it, leaning back in his chair and opening his arms for her. “Good morning, my dear.”

Sansa crawled onto Petyr’s lap. He smirked in that dark way of his, but Sansa couldn’t see, preferring to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his neck. “Good morning,” she grumbled. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty,” said Petyr. “You slept in.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Sansa yawned again. “Renly and Loras took me shopping at the Champs-Élysées yesterday. I was so tired when I got back.”

“Shopping with Renly Baratheon can be tiresome.”

“Mhm. We had a lot of fun though.”

“I'm glad.” His hand traveled down her body, resting on her upper thigh and sliding beneath the robe. “You wouldn’t be wearing anything under this, would you?”

“No,” laughed Sansa. “I didn’t feel like getting dressed.” She placed her hand over his and pushed it down, away from her hips, to his disdain. “Not now. We have plans today.”

Petyr sighed. “Go on, then. Take a shower and get dressed. We should leave here within an hour.”

Sansa planted a kiss on his cheek and slid off his lap. She walked to the bedroom. Petyr felt cold in her absence.

While Sansa took her time getting ready, Petyr changed into something casual, rolling up the sleeves of a button-down shirt and buckling a belt around khakis. Leather shoes, a gray peacoat. He combed his hair and dabbed a bit of cologne on his neck, Sansa’s favorite, and left the suite to smoke a cigarette on the balcony while he waited for her. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He retrieved it, reading obnoxious “happy V-day” messages from his three employees in the group text. He shook his head. Didn’t they know him? Petyr wasn’t a man for love. He was celebrating the holiday for Sansa’s happiness; it was too dangerous to be anything more.

“What do you think?” called Sansa from inside. Petyr snuffed out his cigarette and returned to her. Sansa twirled in a white blouse tucked into a floral skirt, mary janes, a double-breasted coat.  _And the diamond earrings,_  thought Petyr,  _she never forgets those._

“You look beautiful, my love. As always.” Petyr shoved his wallet in his pocket and placed one hand on her hip. “We should leave before I’m tempted to take all these pretty clothes off of you.”

Sansa laughed. She took him by the arm and led him from the room, clutching a to-do list in her hand.

Sansa’s first stop was the Eiffel Tower. She’d admired it from a distance but had yet to see it up close, so Petyr took her there, climbing the tower steps and listening to her gush over the view. They walked through the crowd to the highest level. Sansa snapped pictures with her phone in each direction. Petyr leaned against the rail and waited, gazing casually over the skyline while she fussed over Instagram filters. “Hold on,” she said, “we can go in a minute. I wanna get a selfie from up here.” Sansa turned the camera. She took a few pictures of herself with the view in the background.

“Why not have me take a picture of you?” asked Petyr. “The angle might be better.”

Sansa lowered her phone with a cheeky grin. “Or, you know, you could just take a picture _with_ me.”

So that had been her plan. Petyr snorted. “I try to stay out of the media, sweetling.”

“The only pictures we have of us together are from the gala.” Sansa slipped her arm around his torso, inside his coat. “It’s Valentine’s Day. We should have more.”

Petyr damned his romanticism, a part of him that refused to die. He supposed there was merit to having a picture with Sansa. Telling the world she was his, telling their enemies they were united. He pulled her close. “Take your picture, then. But I can’t promise I will behave.” He cupped her cheek and kissed the other, her jaw, the side of her neck as she giggled. Sansa allowed him to keep kissing her until she pulled away, eyeing him with playful condemnation.

“We’re in public,” she said.

“Did you get the picture you wanted?” Petyr curled her hair behind her ear. “Show me.”

Petyr caught the suspicious stare of an older couple watching them. He wrapped his arm around Sansa’s waist, smirking when the onlookers cringed and left. “Here,” said Sansa. She showed him the photo. Sansa was beaming mid-laugh, Petyr’s mouth pressed to the corner of her jaw, the Paris horizon behind them. “I can put filters on it, too.” She swiped the screen. Dog ears sprouted from her head and a long tongue from her smile.

“What is that?” asked Petyr in disgust. “Is this Snapchat? I’ve seen Mayana do this before.”

“Oh, yeah. She loves putting different filters on you. She takes pictures when you aren’t paying attention and puts them in her story.”

Petyr sighed. Sansa saved the picture in its original form and slipped her phone in her pocket, her hand in his. She led him down the stairs, telling him that  _L’Arc de Triomphe_  was next on her list, and he went with her, encouraging her happiness.

Sansa became quite the experienced tourist in a matter of hours. She took him to all the landmarks she wanted to see: _Sacré-Cœur, Montmartre, Palais Garnier_  and more. She bought a rosary from Notre Dame and fawned over the stained glass windows of the  _Sainte-Chapelle._  Petyr couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Paris as a tourist. Whenever he travelled it was always for business, but the city held a charming beauty even he couldn't ignore. The lovers grabbed a late lunch in the Luxembourg Gardens and toured an art museum before the sun set. They returned to the hotel to change into clothes more appropriate for fine dining. A suit absent of a tie for him, a tight knee-length dress for her, black with a gold belt around her waist. She looked stunning, beyond her young age, a wealthy twenty-something mistress with a man to call her own. It wasn't far from the truth.

Petyr had reservations at  _Pierre Gagnaire,_  one of the finest restaurants in downtown Paris. Holding Sansa's wrapped gift in one hand and her waist in the other, Petyr followed the waiter to their seats, a table for two by the window and wine display. Petyr pulled out Sansa’s chair for her and sat down to glance over the menu.

“Petyr,” Sansa whispered from across the table. She seemed embarrassed, pointing to the menu so only he could see. “I can’t read French.”

Petyr chuckled. He stood, leaning over her shoulder to translate the meals Sansa pointed to. “This is lamb. That’s veal. And this one is…” He leaned back a bit, so the words would come into focus. “Uh, lobster. It’s lobster.”

Sansa faced him. “Are you having trouble reading?”

“No,” he lied. “The font on the menu is difficult.”

“Is not.” Sansa’s smile was wry. “You need reading glasses, don’t you? You’ve been squinting all day at street signs and brochures, and your laptop has larger text than it used to.”

Petyr ground his teeth. Sansa was wholly amused by the idea of him needing glasses. She was too observant for her own good. “You’d better watch yourself, young lady. The older I am, the more inappropriate it is for me to be with you.”

“You’ve never cared about being appropriate.”

“No,” said Petyr. “I haven’t.” He kissed her temple and returned to his seat, ignoring her laughter when he had to hold the menu away from his face just to read what was there.

The first courses were brought to them. Sansa raved about the meats and cheeses, the wine, the desserts that followed. Petyr talked with her over a wide range of subjects, from the things they’d seen on their day out to the list of places Sansa had yet to visit. Petyr saw no harm in indulging her. They wouldn’t be able to spend time together like this once her birthday came and went. Sansa continued to marvel over the little Parisian wonders that had charmed her, and Petyr listened, wondering if she would cling to how she felt now through the hardships to come.

“Oh,” said Petyr after their meals were finished. “I almost forgot.” He pushed her gift across the table to her. “For you.”

“It’s not expensive, is it?” asked Sansa with a little frown. “You know how I feel about that.”

“And you know how I insist.” Petyr motioned to the box. “Open it.”

As expected, Sansa loved the ruby teardrop necklace she found wrapped in pink paper, and thanked him no matter how uncomfortable she may have been. Petyr took a moment to admire how it looked on her, the gold complimenting her skin and hair, before pulling out his wallet and handing his credit card to the waiter.

“I have a present for you too,” said Sansa.

Petyr hesitated. “You didn’t have to get anything, my dear.”

“I know. But you’ve done so much for me, so I wanted to return the favor. Besides, we're together. It’s fair.” Sansa’s smile was innocent. Did she not know the things she’d done for him already?

From her clutch, Sansa retrieved a small box and handed it to him. Petyr unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a pair of brass collar stiffeners engraved with her signature. Petyr sat still, dumbfounded, staring at her present like it was a wired bomb he could disarm.

“I couldn’t think of a message to put on them,” she said. “So I signed my name. I hope that’s okay.”

Petyr would have accepted a pricey watch or tie with gratitude, but being reminded of Sansa’s feelings was almost too much. Red flags shot up in his mind.

He accepted her gift anyway.

“Thank you,” said Petyr with a small grin. “This is very sweet.” He pulled the collar stays he was wearing from his shirt and replaced them with Sansa’s, admiring the loops and curves of her signature before slipping them under his collar. She was smiling when he looked at her.

“Good?” he asked.

“Good,” she confirmed.

When the waiter returned with his credit card, Petyr stood and offered his hand to Sansa. The couple left the restaurant and returned to the hotel in a hired cab.

Sansa kicked off her heels when Petyr opened the suite door, and she skipped into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. She hopped up on the counter with a silly grin.

“Sex in the kitchen?” Petyr teased, tossing his jacket on the table and approaching her. “We’ve already done that. But if this is what you want…” He spread his hands over her thighs and kissed her neck, pulling her close to him. Sansa playfully pushed him away.

“Can’t I drink water without you making a move on me?” Sansa crossed her legs, frustrating him on purpose. “I want to wash my face and change first. Once we’re in bed, you won’t let me leave.”

Petyr laughed against her shoulder. “Smart girl.” He cupped her cheek, brushing it with his thumb, wondering how he’d been so lucky to find someone to satisfy him. “Take your time. I’ll be outside.”

“Okay.”

Petyr moved away. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and his lighter, and opened the balcony doors.

An outdoor chaise lounge was a comfortable place to enjoy the view. He sat down and lit a cigarette, leaning back while the smoke floated through the air. He thought of anything other than the beautiful girl getting ready for him. Anyone but Sansa. Petyr closed his eyes to rest.

After a time, he heard Sansa open and close the balcony door. Her shadow crossed over his eyes. Petyr grinned when he felt her touch his shoulders, working the muscles in a slow massage. He groaned and leaned further back into her touch. “That feels wonderful, Sansa. Keep going.”

Her thumbs worked hard circles on the back of his shoulders and Petyr grimaced despite how good it hurt. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” said Petyr. “Just the pains of age. You had me walking all over Paris today.”

“Oh, you poor man,” mocked Sansa. “I remember you coming along quite happily.”

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint the lady.”

Petyr heard her smile. He continued to smoke, opening his eyes every few moments to watch the stars before closing them again. Sansa massaged his shoulders with near-expert practice. He groaned here and there to encourage her attention to a certain spot. When his cigarette was done, Petyr flicked the end in an ash tray and reached back to take Sansa’s hand in his. Her skin was cold. He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. “That’s enough, sweetling. You don’t want to tire your hands.”

“If you say so,” she replied. He felt her other hand move through his hair. “Can I sit with you?”

“Of course.” He led her around the chaise by the hand. Sansa was bundled up in a blanket, wearing the fuzzy bathrobe she liked so much, curled red hair spilling over her shoulders. Sansa sat between Petyr's legs and leaned back against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her, the other toying mindlessly with her hair, feeling warm from more than just the contact. A few tender moments passed.

“Can I ask you something?” said Sansa quietly.

“Anything."

“I wanted to talk to you. About, um… about the past.”

Petyr narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Sansa curled her fingers around his. “You bought that book. And the scars, and Chicago and my mother…”

Petyr scoffed. The sound was bitter.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to, I just — you deserve to have someone to talk to.”

She squeezed his hand tighter. Petyr leaned his head back and sighed. It would be easy to crush her, to be so cruel that she'd never ask again, but Petyr felt like he owed her an explanation. Sansa had been open with him. If he wanted to keep her, she would require that courtesy in return.

“Ask,” he said, “but be specific. I don’t want to repeat myself.” Petyr lit another cigarette. He would need one.

Petyr could tell Sansa was nervous, feeling her tension under the robe and blanket she covered herself with. She sat up from his embrace, tapping his thigh so he would scoot over. Sansa sat on the edge of the chair as he stayed reclined. She looked down at him with sympathy. He felt like a child. “You bought that book,” said Sansa. “ _Recovery After Rape._  Normally I wouldn’t ask, but with the UN conference and all, I wondered if that was why you were interested in coming here. Women aren’t the only victims.”

Even here, even with Sansa, Petyr’s instinct was to shut her away. “We came because it was important that I meet with certain people,” he said. “The nature of the conference was a coincidence.”

“Oh.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap, wringing her fingers. Petyr blew smoke from his mouth. He flicked the hanging ashes of his cigarette on the ground.

“Twice.”

“Hm?”

“It happened twice.” Petyr didn’t want her to see his discomfort, so he didn’t look at her. “Maybe more.”

“Who?” she asked softly.

“Your aunt Lysa.”

It sounded ridiculous to confess out loud. Ros insisted that what happened was valid rape, and Petyr believed her, but to say so felt wrong. He was never beaten, never tortured like Sansa, never broken. Lysa was just mentally unstable. It didn’t count.

He realized his fist had been clenched and released it.

“My aunt?” said Sansa in shock. “I… I don’t really remember her.”

“You wouldn’t. I pushed her out a window when you were young.”

Sansa didn’t say anything. She was waiting for him to continue. Petyr crossed his ankles and folded one arm over his chest, closed off, while the other held his still-burning cigarette. “I was fifteen. Your grandparents went out together, all four of them. The Starks had come to visit after Cat and your father announced their engagement, so Edmure held a party while they were gone. All the brats in our school were there. Little else to do in small Irish towns.” Petyr cleared his throat, staring down at the patterns on the balcony floor. He could still remember the music. The beer pong, the laughter. “I thought I loved your mother, Sansa. Teenage infatuation. I was distraught that she’d chosen Ned Stark over me, so I drank. I kept drinking until I passed out. I woke up the next morning in your aunt’s bed, naked and terrified. It didn’t take much to piece together what happened.”

He felt Sansa’s hand on his knee. Petyr still didn’t look at her, taking a breath and shrugging off the memory like it wasn’t real. “After I was stabbed by your uncle, I stayed in the hospital. Lysa came again. Hospitals are much nicer now than they were in the 80s, much better security. I don’t know how many times I blacked out from the morphine and woke up to find her there. Going on about how we should get married, how we had a child, some fantasy. There was no child in the end. Hoster made her have an abortion when he found out I was the father.”

Sansa covered her mouth. Petyr laughed bitterly.

“Don’t pity me. I’d be a terrible father, and that would’ve been a terrible child, coming from Lysa.” Petyr didn’t consider the idea for more than a second. “No one came to collect me from the hospital. I had nowhere to go, so I lived on the streets for a year.” He rolled up his sleeve to show her the scars of drug abuse she’d seen before. “Heroin was nice. Cocaine was nicer. But after a year, I learned that dealing drugs was far better than using. Six months later, I ran every drug ring in Dublin.”

“As a teenager?” asked Sansa.

“I always had a talent for business.” He smirked to downplay the subject matter. “America had better opportunities, though, and Ireland had nothing for me after your mother moved to England, so I went to Chicago, where my father was from. Left my name behind. I met Mayana there, had some fun with American politics, got in good with the Clintons, covered up some scandals. The Bush administration was far less exciting. After Bill left office, I took Mayana and my money to London. It was good timing. A few months after we left, two hijacked planes demolished the World Trade Center and changed America.  I never moved back.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I bought the manor, opened the Mockingbird, met Ros and Olyvar, and the rest is history.”

Petyr finally looked at Sansa. In her eyes was the glisten of tears. “Did mum know about all this?” she asked quietly. “Is that why she kept inviting you to our holiday parties? Is that why you never came?”

Petyr placed his hand over hers. “Don’t cry, sweetling. It’s in the past. It’s nothing to me.”

“It’s something to me.” Sansa squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

Petyr snuffed out his cigarette and sat upright. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t yours either.”

Petyr’s chest twisted. It felt like pain. It felt like danger. “Sansa—”

She came forward and embraced him. No kisses, nothing sexual. Nothing but a hug. Petyr’s shoulders relaxed when she held him and gently rubbed his back. “Thank you for sharing with me,” said Sansa. “I’m really glad you did.”

Petyr should scold her. He should yell at her, at himself, for daring to let feelings become real. He’d taken Sansa under his wing to fuck her and teach her, and now what was he doing? Both, and too much more.

Sansa’s phone rang inside the suite. “That’s probably Jeyne,” she said, “I should answer that.” Sansa kissed his cheek. He said nothing as she walked away, taking all the warmth with her when she closed the door.

Petyr felt cold. Confused. He rubbed his hands together and stared out to the horizon, the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the star-studded skyline. Power was the focus of all he’d done, from the drugs and money to the politics and death. But on its own, it was nothing. Sansa took his power whenever she left the room, and brought it back when she returned.

He pulled out his phone to send a message to Mayana. _Not good._

Her response was immediate.  _oh god what happened? don’t tell me you fucked it up_

Had he? Petyr didn’t send a reply, but Mayana had more to say.

_You love her, don't you?_

Petyr stared at the screen. Mayana sent another text. 

_How are you just now figuring that out?_

He scoffed. Mayana’s know-it-all sass wasn’t appreciated. Petyr tossed his phone on the chaise lounge, not caring if it froze overnight. He’d buy a new one.

Petyr stepped inside the suite and closed the door. Sansa was pacing, twirling a copper curl around her index finger, on the phone with Jeyne. She hadn’t noticed him enter the room. “Then he took me to a really nice restaurant, and oh my God, the food was  _amazing._ ” Sansa paused as Jeyne spoke. “I know! He’s such a romantic. He bought me this beautiful necklace, I’ll send you a picture tomorrow. Then we came back here and had a good talk. I just… agh. He’s good to me.” Sansa paused again. Petyr didn’t care that he was missing half the conversation; hers was the half that mattered. “Maybe I do. I don’t know. I’m just really happy.”

There was a rarity, indeed. He’d made someone happy. He’d made _her_  happy.

Petyr knew what was ahead of them. The Boltons and Lannisters, the siblings he’d hidden, the fortune, the future. The beginning of the end, or so it could be. He could lose her.

_I could lose her._

Sansa saw him, and her smile died. Petyr had failed to hide what he was feeling. Sansa spoke into the phone, not breaking away from his gaze.

“Yeah. Thanks for calling, Jeyne. I’m gonna go.” Sansa chuckled — Petyr figured Jeyne had encouraged something particularly delicious, but he wasn’t in the mood to ask. “We will. Love you too.”

Sansa hung up. She placed her phone on the table, cautious in her movements, almost afraid. “You’re, um… you’re not upset with me, are you?” she asked. “I’m sorry if I was pushy about things.”

Petyr shook his head. His voice was raw. “You didn’t push me, Sansa. I am a man of few limits.”

“You’re upset, though.” Sansa hugged herself. “I know you.”

She did. Petyr hated that such was true. He watched her walk to him, reaching out to hold her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, drowned in her eyes. Long ago, he thought he’d be the anchor that held her down. But anchors were the ones that stayed submerged, weren’t they?

He loved her. He was in love with her, he had been for a while, he would be forever.

“I’m not upset,” he told her honestly, “so long as you are mine.”

She rested her hands on his chest. “I am.”

His. It was safer to call her a possession. Love was danger. Love was grief.

He kissed her tenderly. Petyr wanted to devour her, consume her, corrupt her to make loving her more bearable. He pulled the ties of her robe open and slid it down her shoulders, palms gliding over her bare skin to touch what was his.

Sansa wasn’t wearing pajamas under her robe. Just lingerie, a crimson push-up bra, half see-through with lace patterns and matching panties. Petyr chuckled under his breath. “What’s this?” he asked, resting a hand on her hip, eyes never leaving her body.

“A present.” Sansa smiled in that shy little way of hers. It aroused him more than her attire. “Ros helped me pick it out. I thought you’d like it.” She curled her hair behind her ear and bounced on her heels. “It’s Valentine’s day, so…”

“Yes, very nice.” He caressed Sansa’s breasts over the lace and leaned in to kiss her neck. He crouched before her and moved his lips down her stomach, feeling her laugh. He turned her around to grip her ass in his hands, loving the way it looked in red lace, kissing one cheek and smacking the other. A perfect distraction from his plight. “Lay down,” he ordered. “You’ve earned some special attention tonight.”

Sansa moved to the bed, a big, girlish grin on her face when she laid on her back. Petyr stood between her legs and marveled at the sight of her. Red hair spilled over white sheets and skin, pretty lace, a slender figure, lower lip between her teeth. Blue eyes were half-open with desire. “You are so beautiful,” he told her in earnest, making it sound like lust instead of love. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

“I think so.” Sansa lifted her slender legs parallel to his body and rested her ankles on his shoulders. Petyr turned to kiss one. “Someone keeps telling me.”

Petyr pulled his sweater over his head and tossed it to the floor, capturing her mouth mid-smile. Their kiss roughened when she unbuckled his belt and pushed down his trousers. He crawled over Sansa and ground against her, rubbing himself against the damp lace between her thighs. Sansa hummed in delight. He held her hands above her head and pressed kiss after kiss down the center of her body, down until he reached her stomach and yanked her underwear from her hips. He hooked his thumbs under her knees and pushed her legs up and apart, burying his face between them.

God, he loved this. Petyr could feel Sansa quivering under him, his tongue flicking her clit and tasting what he craved, giving as good as he got. Every relentless move of his mouth made her whimper and moan. Being an animal kept him far from being a man in love. His tongue lapped at every inch of her, drinking her in, not stopping until she begged him to. He kissed her pink flesh and curls and inner thighs before coming up to claim her mouth. They kissed, a mix of harsh and sweet until Petyr couldn’t stand how hard he was anymore, driven mad by his need to prove he still owned his heart, dead as it was. He laid down on his side and pulled Sansa’s back against his chest. One arm hooked under her neck, the other guided himself inside her from behind.

Sansa moaned when he entered her. She was warm, so slick and tight that Petyr cursed into her neck. He kissed her jaw and growled possessively as he thrust into her. Sansa’s little sounds were intoxicating. Light and honeyed and drawn by him, small sighs of ecstasy that built higher with each push. Her body hugged his cock and he cradled her in his arms, turning her head with his free hand to kiss her. He reached between them to unhook her bra, throwing it off the bed, caressing her and hissing against the nape of her neck. His name fell from her lips. Sansa smiled, he could hear it in her sigh. He hugged her close and pumped into her, face buried in her neck and hair, savoring her like a champion’s prize.

Petyr was normally talkative in bed. Not tonight. Few words were exchanged between them but the usual,  _fuck_  and  _God_  and  _yes_  and _please,_ and it kept his feelings concealed. Sansa spread her legs when he reached between them. She adjusted on her back as Petyr fucked her from the side, half-hovering over her and circling the ball of nerves at the top of her sex.

And he loved her, still. Here, when it was just the two of them, he could be hers without saying so, and pretend their love was normal.

Sansa came with another few strokes, a mess of shakes and cries in his arms. She trembled when he pulled her close, touching her in whatever way he could to help her through her peak. When the high fell, Sansa held his face and smiled so innocently that he could almost mistake her for an innocent girl.

Petyr paused to let her catch her breath, brushing his face against her neck. His mustache tickled her and Sansa giggled. Petyr stayed inside her, moving slowly to keep the friction but not fast enough to overwhelm her. “My girl,” he praised. “Sansa, you’re perfect.”

She only laughed. It made his chest ache. Petyr changed positions and moved her leg over his shoulder, climbing on top of her and thrusting deep. Sansa cupped his face and kissed him.

Petyr settled on his knees to push faster, to own her. He slipped his tongue between her teeth to swallow her sighs and drink them down. Sansa's body tensed. He knew she was close again. Petyr was barely able to keep off the brink himself, but he fucked her until she was gasping, clinging to him, her nails in his back and countless moans between them. Her muscles squeezed his cock when she came a second time and drained him of pleasure too, a climax so hard he gripped the sheets in the balls of his fists, fiery rakes dragging down his back and to his toes. He was left breathless. Sansa was much the same, and he collapsed beside her to collect himself.

There was nothing but their breathing for a while. Both exhausted, struggling to catch what they’d lost, but in that weakness he succumbed. Petyr grabbed Sansa’s robe from the floor and gently wiped her clean. He tossed it aside to pull her in his arms. They shared many kisses.

And damn him, but he loved her still.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**15 FEBRUARY, 2016**

Cigarette smoke hung in the morning air. Petyr ignored the buzz of his phone and distant sounds of life as Paris awoke. Margaery stood beside him with a cup of coffee, leaning against the rail of her apartment balcony. The crisp, cold dawn didn’t seem to bother her. Petyr caught the smirk in her eye.

“It’s strange,” she said, watching him closely. “I can’t remember the last time we met and didn’t fuck.”

“Neither can I.” He briefly thought back to those fond memories. Hypersexual as he was, Margaery held no intimate interest for him anymore. Petyr’s desire was all for Sansa. “Sorry to have broken our tryst. I did enjoy it, while it lasted.”

“Oh, no. Don’t be sorry.” Margaery flashed him a perfect smile. “I’m glad you found someone, Littlefinger. I truly am.” She sipped her coffee. “Poor thing’s probably worn out. I only had you for a week at a time. I can’t imagine dealing with you every day.”

Petyr chuckled. “Sansa never complains. She’s a good girl.”

“I’m sure she is.” Margaery winked. “But you didn’t come to Paris to talk about your love life.”

Petyr shook his head, grimly.

“What’s this about, then?” Margaery set her mug on the ledge of the railing. “Why see me in person, in secret? Why not send an email or leave a message?”

“I wasn’t sure of my next move until recently. The information is sensitive.” Petyr faced her. “I told you about Varys, yes?”

“You did. How does he know your name?”

“I don’t know.” Petyr flexed his fist and released. “I shouldn’t be so surprised. He has ears everywhere.”

“So do you,” said Margaery.

Petyr drew from his cigarette, eyes cast out to the rising sun. “He told the Starks.”

“The other two, you mean?” Margaery sighed after Petyr nodded. “When you told me to smuggle Jon into London, I figured Varys would make a move for him. I was shocked to hear that Arya was alive, though. Jon spoke so highly of her. As much as I adore plotting with you, I am glad they found each other.”

“As am I. It works in my favor.”

“Does it?” asked Margaery. “You still have to explain it to Sansa.”

Petyr turned his back to the skyline and leaned on the rail, frustrated, arms folded with his cigarette cradled between two fingers. “My main concern is the coming month. Roose Bolton and the Lannisters aren’t going to act until Sansa turns eighteen, and when she does, everything could come undone.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Not yet. They’ve been irritatingly silent. Cersei and Roose have had meetings, I’m sure they’re working together, but I’ve been kept in the dark.” Petyr’s lip twitched. “If Varys hadn’t told them about Ramsay, I would have an ear in their conversations.”

“Is that why you came here?” asked Margaery. “To ask me to spy for you? Cersei despises me, Littlefinger. Ever since you and Grandmother killed Joffrey, she’s wanted nothing to do with me. I spoke out in Tyrion's defense.”

“I know. It would be a disaster if she found out the truth.” Petyr’s phone buzzed again. He reached in his pocket and pressed the button for silence. “No, that’s not why I came here. I don’t need another spy. Cersei doesn’t know I’m onto her, so there may still be hope in getting her to come to me behind Roose’s back. You have a much more important part to play.”

“Aw, Littlefinger. I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.” Margaery playfully touched his arm, leaning closer to him. “What’s my role?”

Petyr snuffed out his dying cigarette in an ash tray nearby. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I need you to keep the United Nations out of my business.”

Her expression fell to concern. “Why?”

“The death of the Queen Mother and Home Secretary so close to all the other murders will start to raise questions. I need the UN to be silenced.  I can’t have any outside investigations happening while I’m trying to take care of business.”

“They could help, you know.” Margaery placed her hand on his arm. A gesture of alliance. “I know people who wouldn’t ask questions, who could help you take your enemies down.”

“Too risky. I can’t afford to bring new people into the fray, not now.” He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles politely. “I appreciate your concern, Margaery, and your continued help. Sansa appreciates it too, though she doesn’t quite know the scope of things.”

“Yet,” said Margaery. She pulled her hand away. “I’ll do what I can. Just promise to take care of this, and let me know if I can assist you further.” Margaery passed him and reentered her living room, exchanging slippers for a pair of heels and grabbing her keys. “Would you like to accompany me to the seminar? I’m giving a lecture on the importance of domestic violence shelters for homeless victims. I’m hoping the American ambassadors will pay attention.”

“My day is booked from here on out.” Petyr stepped into the room. “Sansa wants to tour the city more.”

“Oh, right.” Margaery grabbed her purse and positioned it over her shoulder. She stood by the door with her hand on the knob, and paused. “Can I ask you something, Littlefinger?”

Petyr leaned against the wall, hands folded. “Ask.”

“Will you ever tell me your name?”

If anyone outside his trusted circle deserved to know Petyr’s name, it was Margaery Tyrell. But his personal rule couldn’t be broken. Petyr shook his head. “No.”

“But Sansa knows it, at least?”

“She does.”

Margaery’s smile was peculiar, somewhere between relief and sorrow. “I’m glad. She’s a special person, Littlefinger. A strong one. I hope you make each other happy.”

 _Don’t hurt her._  Petyr read Margaery’s warning through her offered blessing, and appreciated both. “I hope the same,” he admitted, unsure if such was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's pretty much a downhill fall from this point on, welcome to hell :)  
> and as always, your support means everything to me. thank you so much.


	21. Players and Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choice:**   
>  [[welcome to the jungle; guns n' roses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBd9KRjJ4ko)]   
> 

  
**2 MARCH, 2017**

Arya glared at her sister’s Instagram. She studied a picture Sansa’s laugh, Littlefinger’s mouth on her neck, the Paris horizon behind them. The photo had been posted on Valentine's Day and captioned with a heart. Arya remembered Mayana’s protective words, how Varys had been treated, the confusion that overcame her when Littlefinger got involved. And it made her angry.

“You should stop lookin’ at that,” said Jon. He touched her shoulder across the back seat. “It's not good for you.”

“I hate him.” Arya closed Sansa’s Instagram and shoved her phone in her pocket. “He’s a liar and he’s disgusting.”

Jon sighed. They’d been over this half a hundred times, but Arya never listened, choosing to be spiteful because it was easier. She folded her arms across her chest, watching trees and city buildings blur by as Varys drove down the freeway. The car fell silent, as silent as it could be while Arya fumed. Meeting Littlefinger face-to-face would not be fun.

“Not a lively pair today, are you?” asked Varys from the driver’s seat. He took an exit off the M25 toward downtown London.

“Arya’s a bit tense,” said Jon. “She might come to blows before Littlefinger says a word.”

“He will undoubtedly have people present who can prevent that.” Varys smiled sadly to Arya in the rearview mirror. “You can fight him at a later time, I’m sure.”

“I just hate that he made us wait so long.” Arya propped her feet on the back of the passenger seat and sank down to pout. “I hate that he holds Sansa up like a carrot or something. We’re not animals and she’s not bait.”

“I know.” Varys took a right turn down a dimly-lit street. It was well past closing time for most shops and bars, but Littlefinger’s place never slept, according to Varys. “Perhaps you can make your case when we meet with him.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Arya frowned. “Aren’t you nervous at all? He said he’d kill you.”

Varys’s laugh was unexpected. “I know Littlefinger better than most. He won’t kill me.” Varys paused at a stoplight and turned to Arya over his shoulder. “We have a complimentary relationship, he and I. We could have killed each other long ago, but without a viable and constant enemy, who would I fight? I enjoy being the thorn is his side. I’m sure he enjoys being the thorn in mine.”

“And the enemy of our enemy is our friend,” said Jon. Arya felt like a child being scolded. “We want the Lannisters an’ Boltons gone. He wants them gone too. If we work together, we can have Sansa back  _and_  make sure we’re all safe.”

Arya rolled her eyes. She settled deeper into her little ball of rage and stared out the window again. “It’s never that easy.”

The ride was quiet from then on. Arya didn’t move from her curled up position until Varys turned down a narrow alley off the main road. She perked up at the sight of a single red lamp next to a maintenance door. Varys parked close to the wall and turned off the engine. “I’ve told you what this place is, haven’t I?”

“No.” Arya pressed her hand against the window and peered out. “Why’s that light red?” Jon stared at her flatly. It dawned on her. “Gross! Isn’t that illegal?”

Varys snorted. “So is harboring fugitives and killing cabinet members. I think we’re a little past the point of judgment, aren’t we?”

Arya didn’t like that comparison. She hopped out of the car and tugged a beanie hat over her blue hair, partially to keep warm, mostly to stay unrecognized. The deep bass of club music broke through like thunder claps when Varys opened the door and ushered the siblings inside.

A run-down passage made up the establishment’s back entrance. At the end of the hall stood Mayana Washington, smiling with dark red lips.

“Varys,” greeted Mayana. She came forward, taller than all of them, and examined Varys’s face. “Oh, good. I didn’t break your nose?”

“No, no. You were most generous.”

“Cool.” Mayana offered her hand to Jon. “My name is—”

“Ms. Washington,” said Jon, shaking her hand warily. “Arya told me about you.”

“Of course she did.”

Arya didn’t like being in Mayana’s presence, but it was better than Littlefinger’s would be. She shrugged when Mayana waved at her.

“Follow me,” said Mayana. “It’s Thursday so it’s not too busy, but stay close to me anyway. Especially you.” Mayana pointed to Arya. She hated being treated like a kid, but she understood the danger when Mayana opened the brothel door.

The music was so loud that Arya felt it in her stomach, the  _bump, bump, bump_  of a suggestive bass. A range of diverse men and women, some scantily clad, some naked entirely, swung around poles or giggled in the laps of their patrons. Three naked prostitutes sat in vulgar poses in cages hanging from the ceiling. “What the hell?” Arya mouthed to Jon, but he wasn’t looking at her. Jon was red-faced and embarrassed, trying and failing not to look at the women for too long.

They were led to a back room, a room with a sign: FOR PLAY ONLY. Arya backed away. “No no no,” she protested, “fuck that. I’m not going in there. What is this? Where’s Littlefinger?”

“He’s here,” Mayana assured. “I’ll get him when you’re settled. Don’t let the sign throw you off, kid. It’s just a place to meet.”

Arya scoffed rudely and shoved the door open. She plopped on the couch with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. The room was lined with shelves of sex toys, a stripping pole, two big beds, and a booklet on the table with pictures of men and women to choose from, arranged by price. _Why did he have to make us come here? Is this some stupid joke?_

Jon sat beside Arya, looking like a puppy in a shark tank. Varys took a seat in one of the chairs and Mayana stood at the door. “I’ll get Littlefinger, sit tight. Drinks?”

“Vodka tonic for me,” said Varys.

“I’m good, thanks,” said Jon.

Arya wanted to test her limits. If she was going to deal with adults, she could damn well be treated like one. “I’ll have a beer,” she said. “Ice cold.”

Mayana grinned before she left and closed the door.

“Beer?” asked Jon.

“What? I’m thirsty.” Arya lifted her knees to her chest and pulled out her phone. No updates to Sansa’s social media, and Gendry hadn’t texted her back yet. She bounced her leg.  _I want to get this over with._

The sounds of the brothel had gotten louder. Moaning pierced through the wall to their right and the music’s beat could be felt through the floor. Jon cleared his throat when the moaning didn’t stop, and shifted in his seat, obviously bothered. Arya almost laughed at him.

“Why did we have to meet here?” Jon asked. “Is it some sorta test?”

“Don't worry, Mr. Stark. I'm sure you’re not the first married man to enter this room.” Varys tried to smile. “You should relax. Your wife won’t hold this meeting against you.”

“Yeah, if I ever see her again.”

Jon fell silent. He still hadn’t found Val, hadn’t heard if she’d made it to Dubai. Not even Varys’s contacts could find her. Arya leaned her head on Jon’s shoulder. The memory of his wife was enough to stop any further embarrassment, and he let the moaning continue without comment.

A knock came at the door. A pretty redhead in a short dress and heels entered with a platter, two drinks sitting on top. She handed Varys his vodka and Arya a bottle of beer.  _Holy crap,_  she thought,  _they actually let me have some._  She held it awkwardly in her hands. Jon gave her a look, but she didn’t pay attention.

Mayana entered the room as the waitress left. Littlefinger came in after her. He was dressed for business, a mockingbird pin on his tie with combed hair and his signature mustache. An irritating smirk made wrinkles near his eyes. Arya wanted to smack it off.

“Mr. Stark.” Littlefinger offered his hand, which Jon took like the polite soldier he was. “A pleasure to meet you in person.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Jon replied. Littlefinger’s smirk grew.

“And you must be Arya.” Littlefinger stood before her, hand outstretched.

Arya considered not standing up at all, leaving him hanging like an idiot. Instead, Arya rose and shook his hand like an equal. “You must be Petyr Baelish.”

His grin fell as she sat down.

Littlefinger strode over to a chair and sat, crossing one leg over the other. He seemed pleased with himself, already over her use of his name as if it hadn’t disturbed him at all. Arya glared at him and he glared back. She could meet any challenge Littlefinger threw at her.  _Just try me,_  she begged.

“You’re much younger than I thought you would be,” said Littlefinger. “I forget you’re only fifteen.”

“Sixteen in April,” said Arya. “I bet you like how young Sansa is. You’re a filthy pervert.”

Jon nudged her foot. Littlefinger smirked again. “You’ve taken quite an interest in my relationship with your sister.”

“We care about her safety,” said Jon.

“So do I.”

“Then you understand our concern. You don’t exactly have a good reputation.”

A woman screamed in orgasm from behind the left wall. Arya snorted.

“If my reputation bothered Sansa, she wouldn’t continue to stay by my side.” Littlefinger folded his hands in his lap. “She wouldn’t stay in my bed, either.”

 _He’s trying to get a reaction out of us._  Arya tried to stay calm. Jon’s temper flared; she could feel it in the way he tensed at her side. Varys voiced the discomfort all three of them were feeling. “Yes, Littlefinger. We’re aware of your fondness for Sansa Stark. But that’s not why we’re here, as I’m sure you know.”

“Of course. The Stark children want to arrange a meeting with their long-lost sibling.” Littlefinger pulled a cigarette from his suit pocket and lit the end. He blew smoke into the room. Arya waved it out of her face. “I believe the timing is finally right.”

“It was never wrong,” Arya spat. “You just hoarded her all to yourself.”

Littlefinger shook his head. “Hiding one Stark from Cersei and Roose Bolton was difficult enough, but three at once? Too risky.”

“She came out of hidin’ on New Year’s,” defended Jon. “Why couldn’t we see her then?”

“You would have. Someone interfered.” Littlefinger turned to Varys. “Would you like to explain to them why they couldn’t see their sister, my friend?”

Varys chuckled. “As usual, you give me too much credit.”

“You should be flattered.”

“Oh, I am.”

Littlefinger took a drag from his cigarette and Varys swirled his drink, eyeing each other with caution. Arya knew Varys had stolen her and Jon away before Littlefinger could get his hands on them, but a part of her began to wonder if he was telling the truth. If they could have been with Sansa all this time.

“Varys found us to keep us away from you,” said Arya, venom dripping from every word. “You’ve got into my sister’s head. He wanted to keep us from—”

 _“Enough.”_ Jon glared at Arya, telling her to be silent. “I don’t really care who did what or why. All I care about is finding Sansa and makin’ sure she’s alright.”

“A noble cause,” said Littlefinger, almost mockingly. “You have questions?”

“Yeah. I do.” Jon rubbed his hands together and glanced to Arya, wordlessly asking if she had anything appropriate to say. She shrugged. Arya was more interested in watching Jon face off with Littlefinger. If she said anything, she’d just get angrier. “How long have you had her?”

“Since October of last year,” said Littlefinger. “She called me the night she escaped from the Boltons. Mayana brought her to me.”

Jon swallowed a lump in his throat. “We heard about what she went through with Ramsay.”

Littlefinger’s expression changed from cold and calculating to something tamer. “Whatever you heard, I’m sure it is only a small portion of the truth.”

“Is that why you killed him?”

“There were other reasons, but Sansa’s safety was the primary.” Littlefinger flicked his ashes in a tray on the side table.

“How is she?” Jon flexed his hands. “With… with all that.”

“She’s doing really well,” said Mayana before Littlefinger could respond. “She takes daily medication for anxiety and PTSD, prescribed by a doctor we trust, and two of my coworkers are providing. Olyvar graduated from UCL with a doctorate in psychology and Ros has a lot of experience working with victims of abuse. She’s in good hands.” Littlefinger opened his mouth to speak, but Mayana held up her hand to quiet him. “There’s no possibility that she could be pregnant. She started taking pills the day after she came to us when the hospital ran tests. I know pregnancy could be a concern, given Littlefinger’s _very_  open discussion of their relationship, but she’s safe in all aspects. If you want to know other details about what happened and how she’s doing, you should ask her yourself. It’s not mine or Littlefinger’s place to speak for her.”

Arya was stunned. After a long pause, she and Jon nodded to each other. They liked Mayana, they decided; she seemed to care about Sansa to a considerable degree.

Littlefinger and Mayana had a silent conversation of their own. It ended when Mayana plucked his cigarette from his fingers to claim as hers.

“I saw a picture of Margaery Tyrell on Sansa’s Instagram,” said Jon. “She was the woman I met when I got to France. She helped smuggle me into London.”

“Yes,” said Littlefinger. “On my orders. I’d been following your journey since you left Egypt. You never wondered why a notorious fugitive with an iconic canine was never found by the Night’s Watch?”

Jon ground his teeth. Arya could sense her brother’s conflicted emotions, and they became hers, too.

“I kept the military off your back while you traveled across Europe, to Margaery. It was easy from there. I didn’t anticipate young Miss Stark, however. An added bonus.”

“I’m not a bonus,” grumbled Arya.

“Why meet with us now?” Jon asked, wanting to get to the point. “What do you want?”

“A great many things.” Littlefinger steepled his hands. “Sansa will soon be old enough to claim her inheritance, which makes her a much larger target for our enemies. Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton are actively working against me, thanks to the efforts of our friend here.” He gestured to Varys. “Telling Roose of my involvement in Ramsay’s death set a plan in motion that—”

“I don’t care about all that,” spat Arya, on the verge of shouting. “Why now? What do you _want?_ ”

Littlefinger slowly blinked. He stood, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t very tall, but he towered over everyone. “I want everything there is,” he hissed. “But from you, I want your skills. You’ve proven yourself a fair assassin. Jon is a soldier trained by the Night’s Watch. Your tools in my arsenal will help me burn my enemies, as well as Sansa’s, so she can claim what your parents left for you.”

Jon spoke first. “What if I have a condition?”

Littlefinger raised his brow. “Name it.”

“I’m married. My wife, I left her back in Afghanistan.”

“Seems like a poor decision.”

“She wanted to help her village,” Jon asserted. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was her choice.”

“But you’ve lost contact, I assume?” Littlefinger stroked his beard. “Tragic indeed.”

“Find her and I’ll help you.” Jon tightened his grip on his own hands. “We both will.”

Arya didn’t want to be tied up in Jon’s desperation, but she was. She’d come to accept that Val was her family, too.

Littlefinger pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He offered it to Jon. “This is the phone number of a family in Palestine,” he said. “Your wife is there with him.”

“What?” sputtered Jon.

“I thought you might ask about her. Nawal is her true name, yes? A twenty-year-old Pashtun Muslim girl, an able fighter and hacker, called a Wildling near your Afghan wall?” Littlefinger pointed to the number. “She’s staying in the city of Ramallah with the Dayne family, friends of your father's. She is safe, for now. By my arrangement.”

Arya was speechless. Jon took the piece of paper like it was plated in gold. To him, it was.

“Consider yourself hired, Mr. Stark.” Littlefinger turned to leave.

“Wait,” barked Arya. “What about Sansa? If we help you, you’ll let us go. Right? We’ll never have to see you again?”

Littlefinger stole his cigarette back from Mayana. He took a final drag before snuffing it out. “Sansa goes nowhere,” he said. “She stays with us.”

“ _We_  are her family.” Arya had risen from the couch without thinking. “She’s  _our_  sister.”

“Arya,” said Jon, pulling on her arm. She didn’t budge.

Varys swirled his drink and sighed. “Perhaps it is best that we wrap this up. I believe that—”

“No, listen!” Arya yanked herself away from her brother and stormed across the room to Littlefinger. Mayana stopped her before she could get too close, but Arya shrugged off her hand in a sudden jerk. “Where Sansa goes, we go. I’ll kill you if I have to. You’re nothing.”

Littlefinger’s smile was deadly. “It’s a shame, then, that you insist on behaving so harshly toward me. For wherever Sansa is, I will be too. And Mayana, and Olyvar, and Ros, and whoever else Sansa wants.” He placed a firm hand on Arya’s shoulder. His grip pained her. “I suggest you get used to me, Miss Stark. I’m not going anywhere.”

Littlefinger opened the door. Before Arya could shout at him, he was speaking again. “We’ll come for you on her birthday, one week from now. I hope you can be civil. Sansa has been through enough, and seeing her sister and lover fight would stress her out. As for killing me,” he said, smug, “I’d like to see you try.”

He left with Mayana in tow. Fuming, Arya reached for her beer to take a sip.

She read the label.

 _IBC_  
_Root Beer_

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Arya sat on the back steps of the house, hugging herself in the winter cold, watching the fog of her breath. She thought about a lot of things. About Val and Jon and their tearful Skype reunion, about Sansa spending Valentine’s Day with a freak, about Sandor and wherever he’d been taken to. About everything she couldn’t change. Ghost padded up to her from the yard and sniffed her hands for a treat. “I don’t have anything,” she told him. “Go find your ball. I’ll throw it for you.”

Ghost yipped and bounded off to retrieve his toy. He brought it to her, tail wagging. Little joys. Arya threw the ball across the yard and Ghost tore after it, dirt and grass flying up as he failed to stop his full throttle run.

“He’s playful for a military dog,” said Varys from the open screen door. “Most of the dogs I see aren’t very affectionate. It’s part of their training.”

Arya didn’t care to talk about dogs. “Why are you still here?” She picked up the ball when Ghost dropped it at her feet and threw it again.

“I wanted to make sure Littlefinger didn’t trick your brother by faking his wife’s location.”

“He didn’t.”

“No. He didn’t.” Varys walked down the steps and sat beside Arya. “Val looks healthy. It’s really her, too, which is the most important thing.”

“How come you couldn’t find her before Littlefinger did?”

“I don’t have many eyes in Palestine,” said Varys. “I have greater ties with Israel. You can see the complication.”

Arya frowned, brushing a bit of dirt off her knee. “I’m glad she’s okay though.”

“Yes, I agree. It’s good to see a Stark cry from happiness for once.”

Varys pet Ghost on the head when he came back with his ball. Arya threw it a third time. They sat together, watching Ghost play and shushing him when he got too loud.

“I’m scared,” Arya admitted. The words spilled out before she could stop them. “I’m scared for all of us.”

“You should be,” said Varys. “Littlefinger is a dangerous man, and once you’re with him, I can’t protect you.”

“But we’ll have Sansa, at least.” Arya picked at her sleeve. “She wouldn’t let anything happen to us.”

“No, I don’t believe she would.” Varys folded his hands and sighed. “I’m concerned as well, if truth be told. Littlefinger was uncharacteristically kind today.”

“Kind?” spat Arya. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am. He gave your brother word of his wife before any deal had been made. Call it a calculated assessment of Jon’s loyalty, but I think it may have come from a different place. And the way he spoke of your sister’s recovery…” Varys stared off into the distance. “It troubles me.”

“Why?”

“Littlefinger is a vicious, ruthless man. He would see this country burn if he could be king of the ashes. Admirable to a degree, but he’s never had a pressure point. If your sister has truly become his weakness and not just a pretty bedwarmer, and his enemies know it, she may be in more danger than any of us can imagine.”

Arya furrowed her brow. She couldn’t let Sansa be hurt anymore. People would die for it. She stood from the steps and summoned Ghost to her side, suddenly exhausted, but one goal remained clear. “I don’t care if he loves her,” said Arya. “If he lets anything happen to her, I  _will_  kill him. I’ll kill anyone who threatens me or Sansa or Jon ever again, or puts us in danger. It’s best you know that.”  _You could be next._

Arya trudged up the stairs and closed the door, leaving Varys out in the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yessss s s ss sss s  
> i'm sorry if there are edit mistakes in this chapter lsdkgjkalgjda i got like 4 hours of sleep my life is just super stressful rn. and the banner doesn't look very good either lakgjalgj SORRY i did my best!!  
> shit's about to get _real_  
>  love you guys <3


	22. The Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[powers; lostboycrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWwJ4RIUITg)] ◆ [[goodbye brother; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xeUL8VEtyHE)] ◆ [[coming down; halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRXO77hJGKA)]   
> 

  
**9 MARCH, 2017**

Sansa woke from a blissful sleep. The morning sun peeked through pale curtains, casting a dull glow across her eyes. Sansa nearly fell asleep again until she felt a sigh at the nape of her neck and warm arms around her. Petyr pulled her close. “Good morning, my love.”

Sansa rolled on her back. Petyr hovered over her, gently petting the top of her head. “You’re never in bed when I wake up,” said Sansa, happily surprised. “Did you sleep in?”

“No. I know you like waking up to me, and today is a day where I give you what you want.” Petyr kissed her nose, her jaw. Sansa wrapped her arms around him and hummed as his mouth travelled down her neck, his other hand in her hair.

“Is this supposed to be a present?” Sansa barely restrained a moan as he caressed her, unable to fight him, unable to want to.

“Perhaps.” He kissed down her chest and flicked his tongue over her nipple. Sansa shuddered. “What do you want?”

“Breakfast would be nice,” she teased. “I — _mmm,_  I think we should… maybe wait until tonight…?”

Petyr continued kissing her. “I won’t be here tonight. Work will take me away for a day or two.”

“On my birthday?” Sansa frowned. “Couldn’t it wait?”

“Unfortunately not.” Petyr lifted his head, offering a smile. “Now is the only time. What do you want, Sansa? Tell me.”

He was hiding something from her. Sansa didn’t know why he’d keep secrets after all this time, but she let it slide. He’d aroused her too much for her to make a solid argument. Maybe he'd planned it that way.

Sansa flashed him a playful smile. She rolled over on her stomach, propping up on her knees, face down.

Petyr laughed. He sat up and ran his hands over her body, back and hips and sides and breasts, tangling his fingers in her hair. It felt wonderful, being pleased under the gentle softness of his touch. He mapped out her body. He’d memorized every inch.

Petyr moved away and positioned himself behind her. Sansa whimpered as his mouth met her between her legs, his tongue tormenting her with a long swipe. He circled her and tasted her opening as his hands palmed her ass, giving her a smack. He kissed her pink flesh as harshly as he dared, and Sansa closed her eyes and moaned against her will. Petyr kissed and lapped at the pool between her thighs, sending waves of electric shock through her, hard thrums that pulsed in her ears. “Petyr,” she begged after she'd had her fill, pushing up on her hands. “Please, please…”

He pulled away and leaned over her back, one hand wrapped loosely around her neck. “Please what?”

She ground back against him, feeling how hard he was. It excited her. “You know what.”

He laughed softly in her ear. Petyr rubbed the head of his cock against her, a tease, and Sansa whined when he finally pushed in. Petyr slid all the way inside and pulled out, thrusting in again, knowing exactly how she wanted it. Sansa let her head fall to the mattress. His hand rested at the base of her spine, pushing her down to meet his hips. “Look at you,” he praised. “So ready for me. So perfect.” Petyr fell to mumbles of vulgar praise when he set a rhythm, but Sansa soaked it in, pleading for him to move faster, smiling at every wet clap of skin when he rutted forward. The angle let Petyr strike her deep. Sansa kept hold of the bedding in her fists, face buried in sheets that smelled like him. Friction and slick sounds left her hot and reeling. Petyr was tangling her up in knots, but she’d soon come undone.

Sansa tucked her arms under her chest and mewled when Petyr sought her climax, groaning to the ceiling, filling her again and again. Sansa’s body wound tight and found explosive release. Her muscles shuddered and she cried so loud that she feared the others might hear her, but it didn’t matter in the moment. She whimpered his name. Petyr leaned over her, slowing his movements enough to be gentle, brushing her hair off her back to kiss between her shoulder blades. Sansa closed her eyes as he made his way to her neck, and his chest pressed against her back. She lowered her hips and stretched out her legs. Petyr held her and resumed his pace. Mouth buried in her hair, he said nothing but words of devotion between kisses on her skin. Petyr came with a hiss of her name, stilling inside her, and he gathered her tight in his arms when he was strong enough to move. Sansa didn’t feel crushed under his weight. She felt safe, warm. Loved.

Petyr lifted his head after a time and pulled out of her to lay by her side. He smoothed the hair from her face. “Happy birthday, sweetling.”

“Thank you.”

They shared a kiss. Sansa propped up on her elbows and watched him cross the room, naked, to grab a shirt and jeans from the dresser of casual clothes they shared. He looked at her with a smirk. “Are you going to join me in the shower?”

Sansa giggled. She rolled out of bed, stretching with a squeal, and found something to wear in the drawers. Leggings and an over-sized sweater were good enough. Today was a day for comfort. She followed Petyr into the bathroom, into the shower when it was ready, and let him wash her in his ritualistic way, reminding her how cherished she really was.

When the lovers were clean and ready, Petyr led her into the kitchen. Ros had cooked Sansa’s favorite breakfast: hot blueberry pancakes with butter and syrup, and a fresh glass of milk. Mayana put a birthday hat on Sansa the moment she entered the kitchen and Olyvar clapped his hands in celebration. “Hooray, Sansa!” he cheered. “Finally eighteen! My conscience is so much clearer now, you have no idea.”

Mayana ushered a happy Sansa away from Petyr and sat her down at the table. “All these presents are for you, pretty girl.” She pointed to the dozen wrapped gifts in the corner of the room. “But don’t freak out. They’re all from us, it’s not Pete goin’ on one of his sugar daddy trips.”

Sansa chuckled. People could think what they wanted about her relationship, but she was happy, and that was what mattered. All three of them sat down to eat with Sansa, but Petyr was missing. Sansa turned in her chair to find him. “Where did Petyr go?”

“He’s making a phone call.” Mayana pointed to her pancakes. “Try ‘em, girl! You’ll love ‘em. Ros added the special ingredient of  _loooove._ ”

Sansa didn’t doubt it. She ate with her friends and unwrapped her gifts, clothes and guitar music and other things, but when Petyr returned with a reserved smile, his behavior began to worry her. He didn’t say much as the others chatted over their meal. Sansa tried to open him up with a kiss and political talk, but it didn’t work. Even after breakfast, he was much the same. The others felt it too. Awkward silence fell over them.  _What do they know that I don’t?_

“Sansa,” said Petyr, touching her arm. “A word.” He led her by the hand to the front door. Sansa tried to peek out the window to see what he was taking her to, but she saw nothing.

“What’s going on?” asked Sansa. “Don’t tell me you bought me a car. Please, Petyr, you know how much I—”

“No,” he said. “No car.” Petyr held her face tenderly in his hands. “My gift to you is not an object, but a person. You’ve dearly missed them.”

Sansa blinked. She studied his eyes for a clue, but he was guarded, more walls between them than ever. “Theon?” she guessed hopefully. “Were you able to smuggle him out?”

“No. Not Theon.” He opened the front door. “Better.”

Sansa looked out to the driveway. Varys, of all people, stood leaning against a black SUV with a grim smile. She glanced back to Petyr. He motioned to the car in encouragement, and she trusted him, so she stepped over the threshold.

“Happy birthday, Miss Stark,” said Varys. “I hope this can make up for our dreadful mistake of not rescuing you sooner.”

He knocked on the back window. The door opened. A short girl with blue hair climbed out, followed by a man, a soldier dressed in black.

Sansa knew them by their eyes. The Stark eyes. “Arya?” she whispered. “Jon?”

Her legs went numb. She couldn’t feel the wind when she rushed forward or her tears when they fell, but she felt Jon’s arms when he pulled her tight against him. He felt like home. Sansa sobbed into her brother’s shoulder and he sobbed into hers, barely believing a reality she’d long since discarded.

“You're not dead,” she wept.

“No,” said Jon. “And neither are you.”

Sansa hugged Arya close. They were sisters, tied together by blood and bond, and neither of them had forgotten. Their embrace was so tight, so full of apology and longing that Sansa didn't want to let go.

Sansa stared at the brother and sister she’d thought to be dead. The weight of a thousand worlds fell from her shoulders. _You’ve grown a beard,_ she could tell Jon. _I like your blue hair_ , she could say to Arya,  _where have you been, how are you here, how is any of this possible?_  But instead of asking questions, she settled for a statement of fact. “I love you,” she wept, “I love you both so much.”

“We love you too,” said Jon.

All three of them came together for a hug and more tears. Ghost bounded from the SUV and barked at Sansa, standing on his hind legs to prop his giant paws on her shoulders and lick her face. Sansa laughed and kissed the top of his head. She felt like fainting, like being pinched to wake from a dream, but she’d learned long ago the difference between reality and fantasy. This was real. This was everything.

She looked back to Petyr to call him over, to introduce him to her family.

He was gone.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Jon and Arya didn’t leave her side for a moment. The day had flown by entirely, a glowing moon high in a late winter sky. Sansa had gotten comfortable in her old room with her brother and sister. The siblings sat on a bed that once was hers, catching up on time that had been stolen from them.

“…and now I’m here,” said Jon, having finished the full account of his journey from Afghanistan to London. He sipped from a bottle of beer and pet Ghost on the head, but the dog didn’t budge, curled up at Sansa’s side. She smiled when Ghost put his head in her lap.

“That’s incredible,” said Sansa. “I can’t believe you did all that. Saw all those things. I have so many questions, but I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s alright. We’ve got loads of time.”

Sansa scratched Ghost behind the ear. Arya and Jon had been through so much, from homeless life to life on the run. It was a miracle they still lived and breathed. Sansa was grateful that God had chosen to answer her prayers for their safety, if nothing else.

“Sansa?” said Arya. “I want to ask you about something.” Her sister did that thing she always did when she was nervous, eyes roaming the room as if looking for a way to escape. She hadn't spoken much since their reunion. Something was on her mind.

“What is it?” asked Sansa.

Jon cleared his throat. “We heard about Ramsay.”

 _Oh._  Sansa knew they would want to talk about that. Arya and Jon had relayed their experiences to her; it was only fair that she do the same. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. “You want to hear it from me?” she asked.

“Not if you don’t want to talk about it.” Jon gave her a sweet smile. “We don’t wanna make you relive all that.”

“It’s fine. I relive it enough anyway.” Sansa hugged her knees tighter. “Ramsay was kind at the funeral. He offered me his coat. He let me lean on him and cry. He held my hand after I said Kaddish for the family. You’d never know, looking at him… or maybe I was just blind.” Sansa shrugged. “It didn’t matter in the end. That night was the first.”

“The day of the funeral?” asked Jon.

Sansa sighed. Memories barged into her head, as Ramsay had. “He kept me locked in a room. He came for me every night and sometimes the next morning. He wouldn't even let me sit shiva. He beat me, humiliated me and used me.” Sansa shivered. “It was three months of a living hell.”

Her siblings stayed quiet. Sansa spiraled down to that place, the bad place, before Arya called her back. “I’m glad you ran away,” said Arya in a voice darker than any Sansa could remember her having. “I’m glad you killed him.”

“That doesn’t take away what he did.” Jon reached for Sansa’s hand. He stopped halfway, letting his hand fall to his side. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t.” Sansa took his hand and clasped it tight. He needed to know she was okay, but more importantly, she had to assert herself as more than just a victim. “Don’t treat me any differently, Jon, please. I’m still me.”

“I know. I just didn’t know if you want to be touched, is all.”

“You’re my family,” said Sansa. “It’s different.”

They smiled at each other. Jon squeezed her hand, and Sansa squeezed back before they let each other go.

“Littlefinger doesn’t hurt you, does he?” asked Arya sharply.

“Of course not.” Sansa leaned back against the headboard. “He’s good to me.”

“Just because he buys you stuff doesn’t mean he’s good to you.”

“Arya,” Jon warned. Sansa felt tension in the air and it made her uncomfortable. She glanced to the door, wondering where Petyr was.

“He  _is_  good to me,” Sansa said when she found courage. “When I have nightmares, he comforts me. He never pushes. He’s gentle, he never hurts me, never asks for something I’m not willing to give. He’s intelligent and he makes me laugh. I feel safe when I’m with him.” Sansa straightened her back. “He helped me find myself again, and I’ve helped him, too.”

Her siblings fell quiet. Sansa could feel Arya’s judgment and Jon’s hesitation, their collective uncertainty at everything Sansa said. But she didn’t care. She’d made a promise to herself that she would protect Petyr from anyone. Even himself. He deserved that much.

“You love him,” said Jon.

Sansa was unashamed to admit it. She’d never confessed out loud before, but it felt good. “I do. I really do love him.”

“Yikes,” said Arya.

“Why is that ‘yikes’? I’ve just told you all he’s done for me.”

“It’s ‘yikes’ because he’s a pervert and he’s got you wrapped around his finger.”

 _“Arya,”_  scolded Jon, much louder than the first time. Arya ignored him. Sansa grew nervous.

“He hid us from you,” spat Arya, sitting up on her knees. “Your _real_  family. He knew about us the whole time and he lied to you.”

“It was safer,” Sansa defended. “You heard what Mayana said. It was safer to keep us apart so we could all be better protected.”

“But he didn’t care about any of us until you escaped Ramsay! He didn’t try to get you out before!”

“Neither did you.”

“Girls,” urged Jon. “Both of you, enough. Jesus. We’re just reunited and you’re already fightin’?” He placed a hand on Arya’s shoulder and spoke sternly. “Arya, Littlefinger helped us. Even if it was for ‘is own good, he did. And he helped Sansa more than either of us had the power to.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Littlefinger is a part of our family now, whether we like it or not. You don’t get to choose who Sansa loves.”

Arya fumed. She crossed her arms and huffed, saying nothing.

Jon put his other hand on Sansa’s shoulder. He looked at her and spoke gently. “But Arya’s right, Sansa. He lied to you. We could have been together for months and he kept us apart, and he only brought us together when he could use us.”

Sansa couldn’t argue. It was an awkward truth to face. “He cares about me,” she tried. “He won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Honestly, Sansa? He'd do wha’ever he could to have you. And you know it.”

Sansa sighed, fumbling with her shaking hands and thinking of everything they’d said. She couldn’t devalue her siblings’ opinions. They cared for her just as much as Petyr did. They deserved to be heard. She couldn’t let her feelings for Petyr put aside what he’d done.

“I’ll talk to him,” Sansa decided. “I’ll talk to Petyr about it. I promise.” She lifted her head to Arya. “I don’t want to fight. I just want my family together.” Her eyes began to water. “I just want to be happy.”

“Don’t cry,” begged Arya. She scooted closer to Sansa, so close their arms touched. “We can be happy. We’ll get there. I’ll even try to be nice to your disgusting boyfriend.”

Sansa burst into an unexpected laugh. The sisters chuckled together, and Sansa leaned her head against Arya’s, grateful to be united. A long moment of silence passed. Forgiveness went unspoken, but it was felt all the same.

“He  _is_ disgusting,” Sansa admitted. “He likes to smell my hair. He kisses me all the time and keeps a pair of my underwear in his pocket.”

 _“Noooooo,”_  Arya wailed. “Don’t talk about it. I'll barf.” They stayed snuggled for a while until Arya got off the bed. Sansa felt more at ease when Arya brought over her laptop. “I have to show you the funniest cat video. This one jumps out a window like Batman.”

Sansa looked up at Jon. He had tears in his eyes, watching his sisters get along.

 _We can be happy,_  thought Sansa. _We can. We can._

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Jon and Arya went to bed early, laying side-by-side with Ghost between them. They were all exhausted. Sansa didn’t want to keep them up with her questions, so she let them be. She crept from her old room, careful not to wake them, and entered hers and Petyr’s bedroom across the hall.

“Petyr?” she called, flipping on the lights. He wasn’t sitting at his desk or smoking on the balcony. Sansa frowned and walked downstairs to look for him. “Petyr?” she called again. “Where are y—”

“Oh,” said Ros, nearly bumping into Sansa when she opened the kitchen door. “Sorry, love. I didn’t see you.”

“It’s okay.” Sansa wrung her hands. “Where’s Petyr? I can’t find him anywhere.”

There was pity in Ros's eyes. “He already left.”

“Oh.” Sansa didn’t want to seem needy, but it was her birthday, and she wanted to be with Petyr. She wanted to be held.

Ros placed a hand on Sansa’s arm. “Don’t take it personally, dear. He’s just got a lot to deal with. Things have changed now that you’re eighteen. It’s dangerous.”

“I know. But I just, I wanted him here.” It was easier to keep track of her family when they were all in one place. “When will he be back?”

“Two days, I think.” Ros motioned for Sansa to come into the kitchen. “There’s leftover cake if you want some. Where are your brother and sister?”

“Sleeping,” said Sansa.

“Ah. I was about to bring two servings up for Olyvar and Mayana, but I can come back down and talk if you’d like?” Ros could tell Sansa needed a friend.  _She always knows._

“I’d like that,” said Sansa. “Thanks.” Ros took the two plates for the others and left. Something was wrong, Sansa could feel it, she was sensitive to changes in the moods of those around her. Sansa watched the clock. Ros came back after three minutes and sixteen seconds, three minutes too long.

Ros poured two glasses of water and passed one to Sansa. She sat across the table and smiled sadly. “What’s wrong, love?”

Sansa didn’t take a drink. She wrung her hands, staring at the glass. “Why did he keep Jon and Arya from me?”

“To keep you safe,” she said. “That’s the truth. I promise.”

“But it’s not the whole truth.” Sansa forced her hands apart and held the cup, frowning. “He kept my family from me. I want to know why.”

Ros sighed and scratched her forehead, almost in shame. A unfamiliar darkness swept over her. “Sansa, we love and adore you, and we had to keep Jon and Arya a secret for everyone’s well-being. But I do think Petyr was… selfish about the whole thing. He’s very possessive of you.”

“I know.” Sansa leaned back in her chair. She thought back to what Jon had said;  _he’d do whatever he could to have you._  She didn’t know how to feel. Comforted? Flattered? Terrified?

“You should talk to him about it,” suggested Ros.

“Do you think he would?”

“Petyr will talk about anything if you approach him the right way. Especially with you. You have a power over him that none of us could ever hope of having.”

Sansa hugged herself. The possibility of a fight with Petyr put the fear of God into her. He could be angry, he could yell at her, he could strike her. He could dump her on the street. He could do anything he wanted. Anxious, Sansa began bouncing her leg under the table.

“Hey. Don’t go there, love.” Ros reached across the table and took Sansa’s hand. “It’s okay to confront him when he’s wrong.”

“Okay. Okay.” Sansa squeezed Ros’s hand, sharing in her strength. “I feel better now,” she lied.

“I’m glad.” Ros stood from the table and motioned for Sansa to follow. “Why don’t you come be with us for the night? Mayana and Olyvar are battling in Mario Kart. It’s fun to watch.”

“Sure.” Sansa pushed away thoughts of Petyr as much as she could and followed Ros upstairs. She allowed herself to ease a little, knowing she was safe, but the promise of an uncertain future kept her fearful through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo it's 4am again here i am, this is my life  
> something about the reunion scene seems...off to me? maybe i've just read it 800 times and it's late idk  
> WOW I AM SORRY FOR WHAT'S AROUND THE CORNER  
> the next chapter is like the last "happy-ish" chapter and then it's literally downhill ever single chapter after that until the end so here we go kids buckle up, this is what 23 chapters and 5 months of work have bought you  
> love you guys! stay strong in your lives! xx


	23. Menace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[cry me a river; julie london](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQRjgCSUWaE)] ◆ [[i miss you; adele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDBO9x5YwDU)]   
> 

  
**11 MARCH, 2017**

It was done.

Petyr held tight to the steering wheel, knuckles pale. He was alone in the car. No music, no small talk. Just a desperate man and the motorway, after midnight on a day that he’d rather forget. Arrangements were made. Plans, executed. And he damned himself for every one of them.

Petyr pulled off the main freeway and grumbled when he came to a stoplight. He tugged his sleeves. The light was red for too long, so he checked his phone. Sansa had been texting him over the past two days, and her last message he hadn’t replied to;  _When are you coming home?_

He was close, now. Petyr took a deep breath. He parked in the manor driveway, not wanting to wake the house by opening the garage, and sat in the driver’s seat. Waiting. For courage, defense or excuses, he wasn’t sure.

Minutes passed. Petyr opened the door. He walked quietly into the house, shoulders heavy, and entered the living room.

Ros was sitting in her chair by the fireplace. One leg over the other, expression stern. “Do you know what time it is?”

Littlefinger scoffed.

“I asked you a question.”

Irritated, he checked his watch. “It’s one-thirty in the morning.”

“One-thirty.” Ros stood, and she was angry. She read right through him. “You did something.”

Littlefinger shrugged off his coat. “I’m a businessman,” he said. “I’m always doing something.”

“You’ve been acting odd since you got back from Paris, and now you’re making plans without us?”

“Some secrets are best kept.”

“It’s not a secret to me, though.” Ros pulled her phone from her pocket and showed him the screen. A GPS app. “I tracked you.”

Littlefinger pushed out a sigh. He saw the location she’d tracked him to: Roose Bolton’s manor. “Ros—”

“I know you. You’ll do anything to get what you want, even if it means betraying us or getting Sansa hurt.”

“Don’t talk like you know what’s at stake,” barked Petyr. “Stay in your lane.”

“You think Sansa’s safety isn’t my _lane?_ ” Ros’s voice had risen, but Littlefinger couldn’t shush her. “She’s like a daughter to me, Petyr! You love her! Olyvar doesn’t care about what you do as much as he should, and Mayana would rather bury her head in the sand than think you’ve done something awful. But I’m not stupid.” She shoved her phone into his chest, showing the manor on the map where he’d been. “Confess.”

Littlefinger pushed her phone back to her. He moved away to the coat closet, fumbling with a hanger.

“Promise me.” Ros came closer. “Promise me she’ll be happy and healthy at the end of all this.”

Littlefinger couldn’t make that promise. He stayed quiet.

“If you can’t guarantee that, you may have lost yourself a friend.”

“Friend? I hired you.” He pointed to his office down the hall. “You’re under contract.”

“You think I stay because of a bloody contract?” Ros shook her head bitterly. “You have no idea.”

She was testing his temper. Littlefinger inhaled through his nose. “You know too much, Ros. You know what I’ll do if you leave.”

“You wouldn’t,” she countered. “You wouldn’t kill me even if I betrayed you. I’m your conscience. I’m important to you.”

He laughed her off. “I’ve told you many times not to trust me.”

With a frown, Ros moved away. She doused the fire in the fireplace and darkness fell over the room. “If you won’t protect her, Petyr, I will. Whatever it takes.” Her voice came from the shadows. “She deserves to be happy.”

“If I get what I want, she will be.” Littlefinger shoved his hands in his pockets. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope so,” said Ros. “I hope you don’t lose her along the way.”

Ros turned and left. Petyr stood in the living room alone, feeling the walls inch closer together.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sansa would want to speak to him, he knew that. She was probably angry about her siblings. With Arya’s loud mouth, who knew what they’d talked about? The hour was late. Maybe Sansa was sleeping. Petyr walked upstairs to their bedroom and hoped she wasn’t awake.

She was.

Sansa turned to him when he closed the door, wearing pajamas and a little smile. Petyr feigned innocence. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said truthfully. He didn’t cross the room to kiss her, so Sansa took initiative. She wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. Petyr closed his eyes. He’d forgotten how warm she was.

“I missed you,” said Sansa.

Petyr was struck with guilt. “I missed you as well.”

Sansa took his hands, leading him to the sofa by the fireplace, and sat down. He sat beside her. Petyr knew Sansa’s anxiety when he saw it, and he knew his actions were the cause. He waited for her to address the wall between them.

“I need to ask you something.” Sansa held his hands tight. She was afraid, he could feel it in her muscles. “About Arya and Jon.”

“You want to know why I kept them from you.” Petyr cupped her cheek in his hand. He’d rehearsed this. “I had to protect you, Sansa. I couldn’t afford to tangle with the Night’s Watch, had they discovered I was holding a fugitive, and your sister murdered a head of state. The Lannisters would do away with me in a heartbeat if it meant getting their claws into another Stark. Now, I have the means to fight them and keep your siblings safe from harm.”

“You’ve had the means for a while,” she countered.

Petyr sighed. His hand fell to his lap.

“They’re my  _family,_  Petyr. I thought they were dead, but you knew they weren’t and didn’t say a word.”

Petyr stood to pour himself some whiskey. He took a long sip. “If you knew they were alive, you would insist we bring them here. I couldn’t guarantee anyone’s well-being if they were with us before I had my allies in place.”

“But there’s more to it,” said Sansa quietly. “They could have been here since New Year’s, or maybe after we killed Ramsay. There was no reason to wait.” Sansa hesitated. “Are you… are you afraid of something?”

“Excuse me?”

Sansa flinched.  _She’s terrified,_  Petyr noticed,  _she thinks I’m going to hurt her._  He tried not to take it personally. This was Ramsay’s effect, it had nothing to do with him. But that didn’t make her fear easier to bear. “Speak, Sansa. You know me better than to think I’ll strike you.”

Sansa wrung her hands. Petyr leaned back against his desk, drinking and watching her. “You… you’re possessive of me,” she said. “Protective, yes, but also possessive. I’m — I don’t know.” He waited for her to gain the confidence to continue. Sansa stood from the sofa and squared her shoulders. “I think you kept Jon and Arya from me because you wanted to keep me here, with you. If they had found me sooner, they would’ve taken me somewhere else. Out of the country, probably. And you didn’t want that.”

Petyr couldn’t resist a smile. She was brilliant, his Sansa. reading between the lines. But his smile quickly faded. Her truth was nothing to boast. It made weakness of him.

Sansa huffed. “That upsets me.”

“You said so yourself,” said Petyr. “They are your family. Where they go, you go.”

“But they’re not the only family I have.” She moved closer to him, insistent. “Ros, Mayana, Olyvar, they’re my family too. You are. How many times have I said that? Where you go, I go too.”

Petyr scoffed and set his drink aside. “I am a businessman, Sansa. I don’t have time for family.”

“Oh, stop. That’s not true and you know it.”

“Drop it, Sansa. I don't have the—”

“I won’t drop it!” Sansa shouted. “I don’t want to fight with you, but you have to listen to me. I know you’ve had a hard life, Petyr, but you’re being blind. Ros cooks you breakfast, Mayana tells you everything, Olyvar irons your suits, we all suffer your political rants. But there’s so much more to it! We’re here because we care!” She reached forward and held his face in her hands, her voice soft and pleading. “That’s what it means to have a family. Can’t you see how much we love you?”

Sansa’s eyes were full of hope. Her heart was impossible to avoid, and it drew the truth from him like poison. Petyr swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don’t know what love is.”

Her hands fell to his chest. “Yes you do.”

This wasn’t what Sansa wanted. Petyr knew that. He remembered her stories from girlhood of wanting a prince charming, a younger, selfless man to give her a family, to give her all of him. Petyr was not that man. He would never be. He was the devil, the serpent in her Eden, and he would force-feed her the apple if it meant he could have her forever.

Sansa leaned in and kissed him. It was a passionate kiss, gentle yet firm, and she started unbuttoning his shirt in haste. Petyr pulled away. “What are you doing?”

“You learn by touch,” she said, opening his shirt and pushing it down his shoulders. “I’ve lost too many people who didn’t know how much I loved them. I can’t have that happen again, I just can’t—”

“Sansa.”

“I can’t lose you—”

 _“Sansa.”_  He grabbed her wrists to stop her from moving. There were tears in her eyes, and he stared at them.

“You’ve known what love is for a long time,” she said. “You’re just too afraid to chase it. I have to show you how in a way you’ll understand.” Their foreheads pressed together, and Sansa whispered in the air between them. “Please, Petyr, let me show you.”

Gently, Sansa kissed him. He returned it with force, gripping her waist and pulling her close. He walked with her to the table by the window. Sansa bumped against it, knocking over Petyr’s glass of whiskey that shattered on the floor, but he was too drunk on her to care. Petyr yanked her shirt over her head and threw it aside, kissing her throat. He unhooked her bra and cupped her breasts, giving each nipple attention from his mouth while Sansa whimpered. Petyr could worship her forever. Let the forbidden fruit be hers. He would make Sansa love him if it meant she would forgive him when this was all over.

Petyr hooked his fingers under the elastic of her pajamas to pull them down, but Sansa pushed against his chest to stop him. He submitted to her. Sansa kissed down his neck and nibbled at his ear, moving him to the bed, unbuckling his belt. Petyr couldn’t help but laugh. Sansa was never one to take control, but now she was determined to prove a point. Did she really think it worked like this?

He sat on the bed by her insistence, but not before stripping her bare. Petyr laid back and chuckled as Sansa pulled down his pants. “Perhaps you should show me things more often,” he chided.

Sansa looked at him. Her eyes were wounded, and he bit his tongue. “A joke.”

“A poor one.” Sansa straddled him, carding her fingers through his hair. “But I’ll do it. Every day I’ll show you, if that’s what it takes.”

 _Stop,_  he almost said,  _don’t waste that on me._  But he didn’t say a word. A true devil wouldn't change his mind.

She kissed down his chest, his scars, his stomach, and Petyr hissed when Sansa took his cock in her mouth. His hands busied themselves by tangling in her red hair, gripping hard when her tongue flicked over his head. He pet her curls and hummed as she worked him, fully erect, trying to teach him something words couldn’t. The softness of her tongue made him groan as she tasted him, her mouth warm and wet. The lecher in him accepted her lesson and expected more, misbehaving as he was, but there were more important things to learn. He saw it in her eyes when she looked up at him.

“Sansa,” Petyr breathed, stroking her hair with affection as she bobbed up and down. She'd gotten good at this. Too good. He bit the inside of his cheek and released a groan. “ _God,_  enough. Your pretty mouth will waste me before you’ve had the chance to teach me anything.”

Sansa pulled her swollen lips away by his command _._  She moved up to him, face-to-face. She was so beautiful, so tender in the way she touched him, angelic. Sansa reached between them to take his length in her hand. He was hard as stone when she rubbed the tip against her opening. She was silky and soaked, her body promising warmth and fulfillment he’d never found elsewhere, despite the others he’d fucked in the past. Her mouth hovered over his until she sank down. Taking him in at full length, Sansa smiled before kissing him.

She began to move. Sansa rolled her hips, planting her hands on his chest to lift and drop down, lower lip between her teeth, eyes closed. Petyr gripped her hips to help her along. He had to touch her.  _Do_  something. Being sexually controlled wasn’t a pleasing prospect for him, and Sansa knew it. She held his face and leaned down to kiss him. Petyr took her mouth and slipped his hand into her hair again, gripping hard on that perfect red. Sansa moaned and pressed her lips to his nose, his cheek, his chin, his neck. Her chest rubbed against his and she moved faster, but not fast enough to bring her over the edge. Petyr knew what she liked. He propped up his knees and wrapped his free arm around her back to buck his hips up to hers. Sansa whined and rested her forehead on his. Petyr felt her breath on his face and held tighter to her hair, pulling, thrusting up into her as she made wonderful noises for him. Sansa nuzzled him as he sped inside her until they were both sore. She regained control when he stopped, riding him while he brushed the hair from her forehead. They shared a kiss before Petyr flipped her on her back.

“I get it,” he growled, spearing her as deep as he could while she mewled for him. “You’re tender, Sansa, you’re sweet.” Another drive. “You’re too loving for your own good.”

“You’ll have to deal with it,” said Sansa. “Neither of us are leaving, so — _ooh!_ ” Petyr silenced her with a hard thrust. “ _Mm,_  I — you’re just going to… _oh, God._ ”

He chuckled darkly and kissed her forehead. “There’s my girl. Coherent thoughts aren’t what I want to hear.”

“I was supposed to lead,” she complained. “I was supposed to… to show you…”

“You have.” It pained him, but he couldn’t mourn yet, not when he was inside her. “Let me show you in return.”

Petyr rutted into Sansa and set a wild pace. Both of them were panting and breathless. He felt aches and sweat on his back, but Petyr did not stop. He sat up on his knees and held her by the waist, pushing and pulling, in and out like the tide. He could hear the smack of skin, the slickness of her arousal coating his length, the headboard banging against the wall, and it was music to him. She was a far too perfect creature. Her body was something holy. Sansa squirmed and gripped the sheets as Petyr circled her clitoris with his thumb. “That’s it,” he encouraged, eyes focused on her. “Come for me. Come for me, sweetling.”

Sansa reached for him. She pushed herself up, and Petyr sat back on his heels as he gathered her in his arms, straddling his lap. Sansa wrapped herself around him and came undone. Her body trembled, voice broke, nails dug into his back and her legs wrapped tight around his waist. He felt her, muscles squeezing and contracting with a force of pleasure harder than he’d known her to have. Petyr groaned into her hair and inhaled the scent. Cradling her neck, he guided her back down to the bed to plant kiss after kiss on her face.

They paused to breathe. Petyr moved slowly inside her, thrumming from the heat he was buried in, wet and warm and deep and  _her._  He stroked her hairline with his thumb and kissed her gently. They didn’t say anything when his pace resumed. Sansa’s moans and Petyr’s sighs broke the silence, a wordless confession all their own. He cherished her, touched her, kissed her, fucked her, brought her inside himself as he was inside her. It was more than sex. Fulfilling. Completing.

Petyr and Sansa made love so thoroughly that Sansa found her peak again, sobbing his name, body wound tight. It left her a mess, a perfect, happy, disheveled husk of a girl, but she was so blissful that Petyr came moments after she’d collected herself. Sansa drained him as she always did, the heaven between gorgeous thighs taking all he had, and Petyr collapsed on top of her when he was spent. They stayed close. Holding each other, kissing and praising and humming in delight until Petyr overheated and finally moved off of her.

The lovers lay naked, tangled atop blankets. Sansa curled up in his arms. The crown of her head rested just below his mouth, and Petyr kissed her there.

“I love you,” said Sansa. She snuggled closer to him. “I really do.”

Petyr sighed into her hair. “I know.”

It made agony of what came next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHIT  
> FUCK  
> wow, this is probably one of the most important petyr-development chapters to date and i have a lot of emotions  
> i feel really good about this chapter??? usually the things i put the most effort into get overlooked in favor of ones i put less effort into, but i feel damn good about this one and i hope it's not misplaced. there's a lot to like.  
> here's a list of things this chapter was supposed to accomplish:  
> 
> 
> * THIS IS NOT A HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP. jesus CHRIST like, he kept her family from her, she thinks the way to show her love is with sex (it WORKED), and petyr's just a selfish dick GOD i hate them. but it's still cute somehow so whoops that's it that's the ship  
> 
> * a sense of foreboding. things are not going well fam  
> 
> * petyr is being [swiper the fox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IvG9_V4Pcg) and i'm shouting "SWIPER DON'T _FUCKING SWIPE_ "  
> 
> * i planned on this being a longer list but i forgot the rest
>   
> look. this is not good. don't look at this and think "AWWW ADORABLE" because force-feeding someone the apple of eden and feeling like you _have_ to show love via blowjob aren't adorable things!!!!!1!! ok  
>  but also i love these two, wow, this chapter is just really powerful imo. lemme know in the comments what y'all think  
> last note: if it tells you anything about how much shit is around the corner, **this was the last smut scene in the whole fic.** it's literally a constant bummer from here on out, so have fun chewin' on that bone for a week  
>  :) 


	24. Hell Is Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[growing up; dennis gundermann](https://soundcloud.com/dennis-gundermann/growing-up-single)] ◆ [[hell's bells; ac/dc](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etAIpkdhU9Q)]
> 
> "hell is empty, and all the devils are here." - william shakespeare, _the tempest_   
> 

  
**28 MARCH, 2017**

Living with Littlefinger reminded Arya of how much she despised rich people. Being homeless and constantly on the run had taught her the value of money, of what really mattered. She’d made ten-thousand pounds in Jaqen’s cages and never bought herself nice clothes, not a car, not jewels, nothing she didn’t need. But Littlefinger and his associates lived in luxury. A Bentley, a Cotswolds manor, Dolce & Gabbana, Tiffany’s, Dior, the latest phones and laptops, thousand-dollar bottles of whiskey. The opposing ways Arya and Sansa had spent their year apart aggravated her. She never said anything to Sansa, though. Jon insisted that it would be selfish. They had to think about Sansa’s well-being, he’d said, and do what they could to keep her happy.

It was easier said than done.

Arya didn’t completely hate life with Littlefinger, but neither did she enjoy it. Seeing Sansa every day was the best thing. Sansa laughed, she smiled, she joked, she socialized. Even on her bad days when anxiety got the best of her, she didn’t isolate, nor did she spend the whole time with Mr. Horrible doing God-knows-what. Arya begrudgingly admitted to liking Mayana and the other two. They were sane and friendly, not creepy and weird. They didn’t invade her space. Just because Arya enjoyed them, though, didn’t mean she trusted them. Not long after moving in, Arya’s investigations began.

“Where did I meet Petyr?” Olyvar had questioned when Arya came to him. “I was a student at university. I was struggling, you see, a poor college boy with a family refusing to support me after I came out. Petyr gave a lecture at the school on running an effective business. I excelled at his lessons more than anyone else, so he bought me dinner the next night and offered me a deal. He would pay for my degree, room and board if I worked for him after I graduated.”

“And you just went with it?” Arya asked.

“Petyr is nothing if not persuasive.” Olyvar had sipped his tea, suspiciously amused, and Arya left it at that.

Ros was next on her list. “I met Petyr after he hired me for a night,” she’d told Arya. “I was a working girl on the street at the time. He’d seen me while looking for women to hire at the brothel he was building, and he wanted me to help him run the place. More than just sex, of course. He said he liked my mind.”

“Wait, you slept with him?” asked Arya.

“No. Not once. He flirted and I flirted back, but when I made a move on him, he simply said he wasn’t interested.” Ros shrugged. “He’s never touched any of the girls who work at The Mockingbird, did you know that? I thought he was dysfunctional until I heard about Margaery Tyrell, but even that wasn’t intimate. Just a way to keep her close.”

“Don’t tell me about his sex life,” Arya had said in disgust. “I want to keep my lunch down.”

Mayana’s answer about Littlefinger was more troubling. She’d stuffed her face with a burger from McDonald’s to avoid Arya’s prodding, but Arya was a stubborn girl, and Mayana eventually gave in.

“I was fourteen when Petyr killed my dad,” she said casually.

“What?” Arya blinked. “He killed your dad?”

“Well, yeah. My dad was a dick. He was a rival drug dealer for Pete’s business in Chicago, so he ganked him. I wasn’t sad to see him go. He was a real ass.” Mayana took another huge bite of her Big Mac, talking with her mouth full. “Pete liffed up in a loft ‘partment when ‘e was workin’ drugs. Fancy shtuff.” She swallowed. “So I stalked him. I didn’t have nothin’ without a dad, mom died years ago. I sat outside his rich white apartment building with its swinging glass doors and every day when he came out, I asked him to take me in. He ignored me for six months.”

Arya didn't know what to say. Hearing that Mayana had been a homeless teen like she was made her more comfortable in a weird way. She waited for Mayana to finish.

“I tried begging. Worked for crap, Pete’s not the kind of guy to respond to that. So I studied him over the six months he ignored me. I learned all about his deals and trades, how he ran his drug business. It wasn’t very good. So after those six months, I finally got my courage and told him he was one of the shittiest drug dealers I’d ever met.”

“You did?” asked Arya.

“Yep. I told him why his business was fallin’ apart.” Mayana beamed. “No one wanted to buy drugs from some short know-it-all white dude, especially when he wasn’t even American. He needed someone who knew the streets. Spoke the way they do, no suit and tie college-educated shit. He had to be real if he wanted to do it right. So I told him to take me in because I’m the best way to teach him.”

“You were only a kid?” asked Arya, surprised.

“I was around fourteen at the time. It was weird at first, sleeping in his apartment, but we warmed up to each other real quick. I taught him how to better manage his drugs, he gave me food and a roof and a good education. I’m a college graduate!” She flexed her right bicep and kissed it. “Bachelor’s in Business Management, baby.”

Arya hadn’t wanted to see Littlefinger in a positive light. “That’s all because of him?”

“Oh, hell no.” Mayana swatted the air. “He was even more of a dick back then than he is now, if you can believe it. Nah, I worked hard on my own, he didn’t give me nothin’ except the money to get it done. He was one hell of a tough teacher too. But I learned. I owe him my life.”

Arya hadn’t known what to say. She thought back to those three conversations with Littlefinger’s henchmen while they laughed over a card game at the kitchen table. They’d been playing with Jon and Sansa since early morning. Arya sat on the countertop, peeling a banana, swinging her legs and watching them. Mayana had won the last two games, but Olyvar was quickly catching up.

“Six aces,” said Jon. He was a terrible liar. As a result, he held most of the cards.

“Playing with two decks really fucks over the weak links,” laughed Mayana. “Two twos.”

“Four threes,” said Sansa.

“Two fours,” said Ros.

“One five,” said Olyvar.

Jon raised a brow. “Bullshit.”

Olyvar stared at Jon in challenge before eventually cursing and taking the cards in the center. “How did you know?”

“Because I have all the fives.” Jon showed them to him.

Mayana laughed and slung her arm over Olyvar’s shoulder. “Poor baby,” she mocked. “Starting to lose your upper hand, are you?”

“Be gentle,” said Ros. “He’s still wounded from the beating you gave him earlier.”

“You all are.” Mayana leaned back in her chair with a cocky grin. “Whose turn is it?”

“Yours.”

“Oh.” Mayana played her cards and the game continued.

Arya made everyone sandwiches when it was lunchtime. She sat at the table and observed their game, learning how to play but not feeling up to participating. She’d probably just beat them all. She sat beside Jon and pointed to the cards he should use to lie when the kitchen door opened, and Littlefinger entered.

“Petyr,” said Sansa. Her expression brightened like a bulb and she stood from the table to go to him. Arya rolled her eyes when they kissed. Jon gave her a look as if to say, “it’s not that bad.” She replied by sticking her finger in her mouth and pretending to gag.

Littlefinger kept his hand at the small of Sansa’s back, studying the group. “Playing Bullshit?”

“Your favorite game,” mumbled Arya.

Mayana dropped her cards on the table. “Come join us, Pete! We’re playing with two decks.”

“I can’t, unfortunately. I need to make a few phone calls.” Littlefinger placed his hands on Sansa’s hips, looking only at her. “And you were promised a self-defense lesson from your brother, weren’t you?”

“Mhm,” said Sansa. “We were going to start after this game.”

“Good. Finish up, then. The sooner you’ve mastered it, the more at ease I will be.” He kissed her forehead. Arya groaned rather loudly and avoided Jon’s judging stare. She didn’t want to hear how she had to just  _deal_  with this. If she provoked Littlefinger, maybe he’d snap and they could all leave, and he’d disappear like a bad dream.

The game of Bullshit ended with Sansa claiming victory. Arya couldn’t remember her sister being such a good liar — she was as bad as Jon, way back when — but she’d clearly discovered the ways of deception. Mayana complained about Sansa being lucky. The two exchanged banter, but Arya didn’t care to hear it, and left the room. She ascended the stairs and walked down the hall, to the farthest end away from Sansa and Littlefinger’s bedroom, to the room she shared with Jon. Arya opened the window and retreated to her happy place.

The window, once opened, led to the tile-covered roof on an incline. Arya climbed out and crawled across until she found her perch, a few feet from the sill, in a place where the tiles grooved just right to fit her between them. Bran had taught her how to find the perfect spot. She sat cross-legged and closed her eyes as the spring breeze rolled by, tousling her hair. The temperature was still a little cold, but nothing unbearable as winter had been, and the front gardens were nicer now that the snow had melted and flowers were budding. The hanging wisteria and chrysanthemum bushes were Arya’s favorite. She even liked the roses, despite Littlefinger’s promise to present Sansa with a daily bouquet once they bloomed. The stone brick driveway curved through bushes and trees, greenery and foliage, a botanist’s spring dream. It was beautiful to the eye.

Arya’s phone chimed. She pulled it from her pocket, reading a text from Gendry. A smarter Arya would know not to talk to him, to keep him from getting involved in all this, but she was nothing if not lenient with him.

_i’m so glad winter is over,_  read the message.

Arya grinned.  _Why?_

_too bloody cold. we get less customers now that people have lives and stuff. baby showers and school and whatever_

_I’m jealous. I wish I could be working at the brotherhood again._

_haha yea. instead your stuck with a grade-A sleaze ;)_

Arya wrinkled her nose.  _Why the winky face? Get out._

Gendry replied with another winking emoji. Arya huffed. She wanted to ignore him, but Arya felt too stranded to push her only friend away. Sansa and Jon came out of the manor’s back door, talking. Jon led her beneath the willow tree and started showing her how to make a proper fist. Arya watched them briefly before responding to Gendry.  _How has your day been? How is everyone?_

_good. luwin’s been teaching the kids how to do maths and stuff. he’s good to them. yoren’s an assistant manager now. beric and thoros are trying to get more creative with the menu. ive mostly been doing mechanical work to fix up the place._

Arya smiled. Everyone was alright, then.  _I bet you’re good at that._

_the best. or at least i will be_

_You will be._  Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She sniffled before typing again.  _And no sign of Sandor?_

Gendry’s reply was immediate:  _none._

Months of nothing from Sandor had Arya worried out of her mind. He was her friend, he’d protected her, and the thought of him paying the price for her crime brought incredible guilt. Everyone else was safe. He deserved to be, too.

A knock came at her window. Arya jumped, turning to see Littlefinger poking his head out to find her. “What the hell!” she shouted. “Can’t I be alone up here?” She scooted away from him.

Littlefinger laughed, opening the window farther to step out onto the roof. He carried a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with him. He sat beside Arya, looking like he’d just left a business meeting that didn’t go well. He lit a cigarette. She glared at him.

“Want one?” he asked.

“What? No.”

Littlefinger shoved the cigarettes in his pocket and inhaled from the one he had. The smoke made Arya cough. She considered leaving his presence altogether, finding somewhere else in the house to escape, but Littlefinger seemed intent on talking to her. “A fine day for it,” he said, pointing to Sansa and Jon sparring under the tree.

Arya didn’t respond. She didn’t know what he was playing at. She stared at him, hostile, until he changed the subject.

“I’ve forgotten to ask how you like it. The manor.” He motioned to their surroundings. “Must be comfortable for you, considering where you were before.”

“Varys treated us well,” she defended. “He did his best to keep us safe and he never exploited us.” Arya crossed her arms. “That’s more than you can say.”

Petyr chuckled. “I was referring to the house itself, Miss Stark. I can only imagine how your previous accommodations were.”

Arya rolled her eyes.  _Rich people._  “I lived under a bridge for six months. I stopped caring about nice things a long time ago.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yet another difference between the two of us. Homelessness taught me to appreciate the finer things even more.”

Arya glanced at him. “You were homeless?”

“For years.”

She hadn’t known that. Arya studied him behind guarded eyes, but the moment was brief. She chastised herself for being curious even a fraction of a second. So he liked expensive things, good for him. “Why are you here?” Arya asked. “I was doing fine on my own.”

“You have been avoiding me for weeks,” said Littlefinger. “It is best that we find some way to get along given our common denominator, don’t you think?”

Arya huffed. Jon had talked to her about this — _tolerate him, Arya, for Sansa’s sake_ — but she was sick and tired of looking at his smug grin and wandering eyes, following her sister wherever she went. “Maybe,” Arya muttered. The two sat in silence until Littlefinger cleared his throat.

“I know you killed the Freys and Meryn Trant.”

Arya’s shoulders relaxed. Now  _that_  was something she could talk about. “Yep. They had it coming.” She turned to him. “You killed a lot of Cersei's people, too. Why?”

“If Cersei is out of options for protection, her most trusted people killed, she will be far more likely to seek me out. Roose Bolton knows I killed his son, but Cersei wouldn’t care about betraying him if it meant her own safety. I’ve made myself invaluable to her.”

“But why did you have to?”

Littlefinger flicked the ashes of his cigarette to the wind. “It’ll make everything easier.”

Arya didn’t like the sound of that. Being Cersei’s ally would make Littlefinger her enemy, wouldn’t it? As if he wasn’t her enemy already. Arya turned back to Sansa and Jon, who were play-fighting for the sake of learning a lesson. She felt uncomfortable with the parallel.

“What do you want with my sister?” Arya asked, with venom. “You know I’ll—”

“Kill me? Yes, I’m aware.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

Littlefinger kept his stupid smirk. Arya watched it closely, watched how it faded as his thoughts progressed. “Your sister is a special girl,” said Littlefinger. “Special and impossible. I don't believe either of us has the intention of leaving the other. Not yet, anyway.”

_So I really am stuck with this guy,_  Arya thought. She should have known. It was obvious. Arya couldn’t understand, couldn’t put the pieces together and see how Sansa would want anything to do with an old pervert who would use them for his own gain. But again, Jon’s advice came back to her:  _tolerate him, Arya, for Sansa’s sake._  She sighed in defeat.

“It’s cool,” said Arya.

Littlefinger raised his brow.

“Your house. It’s cool, I guess.” Arya picked at her nails. “Our room is nice and the beds are comfy.”

“Is that a thank you?” asked Littlefinger.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’ve still got my eye on you. And don’t think I’ve forgotten everything you—”

“Yes, yes.” Littlefinger waved his hand. “I’m aware.”

Arya, content with the exchange, turned to watch her brother and sister again. Sansa attempted to punch Jon’s open hand. When she smacked him successfully, Jon smiled and applauded her. “Good job! That one really hurt.”

“Did not,” laughed Sansa. Arya couldn’t tell what they said beyond that, they were too far away, but she was happy just to watch them, even with someone like Littlefinger beside her.

She heard a buzz. Littlefinger retrieved his phone and read a message. He paused. Uncharacteristically quiet. Without asking, Arya leaned over to see the text.

It was from Roose Bolton.

_Late birthday present for Sansa. Thirty seconds._

Littlefinger stood abruptly. He left Arya on the roof and climbed back inside. Arya panicked and followed him. She rushed down the stairs and out to the porch after Littlefinger threw open the front door. “Sansa!” he shouted. “Come inside, quickly!”

Sansa didn’t understand, but Jon, ever the soldier, took action. He grabbed her arm and ran with her to the door. A car engine revved in the distance, a black van speeding down the long driveway toward the manor. Jon shoved Sansa into Littlefinger’s arms and pulled his gun from the back of his jeans. Arya reached for Needle. The others stood in the hallway, surprised, but none of them were needed. The van only stopped for a second.

“Happy birthday, princess!” mocked the driver. “Can’t wait to give you the rest of your gift.”

The van door opened. Two men dumped a body in the driveway. Jon stepped forward and fired his gun more than once, but the van was already speeding off, leaving the smell of rot and death in the air.

A mangled corpse lay at Arya’s feet. Partially dismembered and covered in grime, naked, genitals severed, hair white and half-gone.

The body of Theon Greyjoy.

Sansa screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well kids, here we go!!  
> AAAAAND it's hiatus time! this marks the end of part three of this monster fucking fic. HOME STRETCH FAM, HOME STRETCH. i'll take a week off. maybe two, you'll have to check my tumblr @kingpetyr for updates, but what i'm _trying_ to do is save up enough chapters to be able to publish the final three in one day. just because it's a lot, and i'd hate to leave people waiting for the conclusion in the middle of all this tension, ya know? so we'll see. AHHHH FINALLY HERE, LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD BITCHES xoxo


	25. Hail Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[el malei rachamim; yitzhak husbands-hankin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdY5FSVbIC0)] ◆ [[ave maria; vienna boys' choir](https://open.spotify.com/track/4rRmNJfLRGZpSKFPX8cCdC)]   
> 

  
**2 APRIL, 2017**

The last time Sansa had attended a funeral, it was her mother’s. Robb’s and Talisa’s, her unborn nephew’s, Bran’s and little Rickon’s. The day had ended with bruises and torture as though the loss of her family wasn’t enough pain to bear.

Now, Sansa was attending another funeral. One she could have prevented.

“He was tortured for months,” Jon had said the evening prior, reiterating the coroner’s report on Theon’s remains. “Some wounds are as old as before the fire, others are from the time you were captive. But most of 'em happened after…”

“After I left.” Sansa didn’t need him to say it.

So many things fell into place for her, then: why Theon avoided her during her captivity, why he didn't stop Ramsay, why he’d stayed silent when she begged him for help. Theon was Ramsay’s prisoner as much as she had been. Not in the same way, perhaps, but they'd both suffered at a monster’s hands. She’d promised to save him as he’d saved her.

And Theon was dead.

Yara held a quick memorial. She didn’t want to stay in England longer than she had to. Sansa couldn’t fault her for that. She couldn’t fault her for anything, her short remarks at the podium, her quick dismissals of guests, her unwillingness to speak. The memorial wasn’t conclusive at all, in pieces like the situation that led to it. Sansa sat in the back row with her siblings and prayed that Yara could forgive her failure.

“We should say Kaddish for him,” said Sansa after the service.

Jon turned to her. Even Arya looked confused.

“He was our brother, once.” Sansa wrung her hands. “He loved our family. He betrayed Robb, but he saved me in the end. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be with Ramsay.”

Arya nearly argued, but Jon held up his hand to quiet her. “We can go to temple tomorrow,” he said. “We'll say Kaddish for everyone we’ve lost. Not just ’im.”

Sansa liked the thought of that. She stood from her seat to brush out her dress, and stopped her siblings from following her. “I want to talk to Yara,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

Jon gave her a reassuring smile. Sansa didn’t return it, and walked quietly through the small crowd to where Yara Greyjoy stood at the funeral home’s window. Yara cradled a drink in her hands, dressed in modest black, watching spring rain patter against the glass and wilting flower buds. She didn’t turn to Sansa when she approached.

“Yara,” said Sansa in a broken voice. “I — Ms. Greyjoy, I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

“I know who you are.” Yara looked at her, expression stone-cold and wounded. “We met on Theon’s birthday a few years ago.”

“Right. I just, um, I didn’t know if you remembered.” Sansa nervously curled her hair behind her ear. She didn’t know where to begin. How could she explain in words what Theon had done for her, or the gratitude she felt because of it? “I, um… Theon, he — he wasn’t as bad as people—”

“I know he wasn’t.” Yara turned to the window again. “He was a stupid little shit sometimes, but he was my baby brother. My only living family. I loved him.” She sipped her drink. “Now it’s just me.”

Sansa wanted to offer her sympathies.  _I know how you feel,_  she could say, but did she truly? Sansa once believed she was the only remaining Stark, but her brother and sister had returned to her. Yara’s family would not come back from the grave.

“Doesn’t help that I’m gay as all hell,” laughed Yara bitterly. “I can’t pass on the bloodline. My father always prized it. Too bad for him.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sansa.

“Don’t be. Not your fault.” Yara studied Sansa’s face. “Did you want something?”

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat and picked her nails. “I — I told Theon I would go back for him. I told him I’d help him escape, but I never did.” Her hands trembled. “Yara, I’m sorry, I spent so long in hiding and trying to recover that I—”

“The Boltons did this,” blurted Yara. Sansa fell quiet. Yara threw her head back and finished her drink, placing her empty glass on the table nearby. “Don’t blame yourself. I know Ramsay hurt you, just like he hurt my brother, but you getting out alive was what Theon wanted. So don’t talk about his last good deed like it was a bad thing.”

Sansa didn’t know how to respond. She tightened her grip on her own hands. “You’re right,” she said after a time. “I wanted to go back for him, I truly did. But it was so complicated.”

“I know. Littlefinger told me.” Yara managed a compassionate smile. “I’m sorry Ramsay hurt you. And as much as I wish I could rip out that bastard’s throat myself, I know you got Theon’s revenge.”

Sansa straightened her back. “I did.”

“That’s all there is to it.” Yara stared out the window again. The rain poured harder and thunder rolled through the sky. “I’m going home.”

“To Norway?” Sansa asked.

Yara nodded. “There’s nothing left for me here. My father’s enterprise — _my_  enterprise — we operate out of Oslo. I was only here for my brother. The police won’t give me his body any time soon, if ever.” Yara pulled something from her pocket, a small slip of paper, and motioned for Sansa to hold out her hands. “This is my direct number,” she said. “Theon died to keep you safe. The least I can do is honor that. Anything I can do. Just call.”

Sansa took the paper and thanked Yara, looking down at the handwritten digits.  _It all comes down to a phone call, doesn’t it?_  “Here. I have something for you too.” Sansa opened her purse and retrieved a small key. “It’s for a safe deposit box,” she explained. “I put a few things in there. Pictures of Theon from when we were younger, some of Littlefinger’s business tips and Norwegian contacts, and some money. It’s not much, but I had to do something for you.” She looked up to Yara. “Take care of yourself. Please.”

Yara wrestled with a smile. She took the key, and Sansa’s hand. “You take care of yourself too, Sansa. And give Roose Bolton hell.”

Sansa had never made a quicker promise.

Jon, Arya and Sansa left the funeral home when the reception was over. Mayana was waiting for them in the car park. The drive home was silent, interrupted only by Sansa’s buzzing phone from Jeyne’s unread text messages. Yara’s words of comfort aside, Sansa had failed Theon. Roose Bolton had made sure she would never forget it.

“Sansa,” said Olyvar when she stepped through home’s front door. Rainclouds blocked the sunset, casting a gray glow inside. “You look dreadful. Do you want some tea? A hug?”

“No thank you,” said Sansa. She stared blankly forward. “Where’s Petyr?”

No one responded. Sansa broke from her monotone trance to look around. “He’s in a meeting,” said Mayana. “He’ll be home soon.”

“Okay.” Sansa hugged herself and walked upstairs. She entered hers and Petyr’s bedroom, housing a numb heart, and crawled under the blankets to rest.

Sansa didn’t eat dinner. She curled up with a pillow and laid there in search of comfort she never found. She cried for a bit, slept a bit more, and didn’t move more than a few inches. Hopelessness kept her paralyzed.

After an unknown span of time, Sansa heard the door open. She knew it was Petyr by his footsteps, and felt his weight when he sat beside her on the bed. Petyr’s fingertips brushed her hair from her cheek. “You should eat, sweetling.”

“I don’t want to eat,” she said. “I just want to lay here.”

“No you don’t. You want Roose Bolton to pay for what he’s done, and he can’t do that if you’re not strong enough to make him.”

Sansa sighed. She pushed herself upright and leaned back against the headboard. Petyr gave a sad smile and cupped her cheek. “Better.”

Sansa took the handful of crackers he offered and ate them slowly. Petyr watched her, his hand on her thigh, stroking his thumb along her skin beneath the dress. Nothing lecherous, just a touch, a connection. “None of this is your fault, Sansa. Do you understand that?”

Sansa felt her tears return. One spilled down her cheek, and she wiped it away. “I should have gone back for him sooner.”

“There was nothing you could have done. Even if there were, you would’ve risked being retaken by Ramsay. I would not have allowed that.”

“But…”

“Come here.” Petyr reached for her when she sobbed. He pulled her into his arms and held her tight, shushing her gently, her head tucked under his chin. Sansa wept and clutched his shirt in the ball of her fist, clinging to him in fear. Of what, she didn’t know. But she was sick of losing people she loved.

“Perhaps you should visit church,” Petyr suggested.

Sansa lifted her head. His eyes were distant, but not without earnest.

“You find comfort in prayer, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She sniffled. “I do.”

“There’s a new parish a few miles away. Perhaps your brother and sister could take you there.” He touched her arm. “Would you like that?”

The thought of prayer was comforting to her. “I think I would,” Sansa decided. “You’re right. You’re always right, aren’t you? Except when you’re not.” She chuckled.

“Except when I’m not,” he replied. Petyr squeezed her hand. “I don’t want you to go alone.”

“Would you come with me?”

“I'm afraid I can't tonight. Ask your family, perhaps.”

“Okay.” Sansa wiped tears from her cheeks. “Thank you, Petyr. For everything.”

Petyr held her face. “Don’t thank me yet, Sansa. Not until all is said and done.”

He kissed her tenderly. When they parted, Sansa grabbed her coat and shoes, slipping them on. She took her mother’s rosary from her bedside table. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”

“Always.” Petyr pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “Be careful, my love.”

“I will.”

She smiled at him and left the room.

Jon and Arya were talking to each other when Sansa entered the lounge. Her siblings waved at her. “Hey,” said Jon. “You feelin’ better?”

“Not really.” Ghost rose from his bed by the fireplace and came to Sansa for pets, which she gave. “I was thinking I might go to a parish down the road, just to clear my head. Would you come with me?”

“To church?” asked Arya. “Us?”

“It’s not like we haven’t been before,” said Jon. “Is it safe?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa shrugged. “Petyr thinks so.”

“I’m just worried about someone recognizin’ us. Greyjoys are one thing, but if the priests know who we are, it could get ugly.”

“What’s the matter?” Ros stepped into the room from the kitchen, having overheard them. “Is everything alright out here?”

“It’s fine,” said Sansa. “Petyr gave me the idea to go to church. I was gonna go to the one down the road, you know. But he thought Jon and Arya should go with me for protection.”

“He said that just now?”

“Mhm.”

Ros hesitated. Sansa tried to read her when she crossed the room to the coat closet, pulling her peacoat off the hanger. “I’ll take you instead.”

“Are you sure?” Jon asked. “You don’t have to. We can—”

“No, it’s fine.” Ros smiled in assurance. “You’re right, it’s better if you two stay hidden. Sansa will be safe with me.”

Sansa said goodbye to her siblings and left the manor on Ros’s direction, sitting in the passenger seat for the short drive. St. Mary’s Parish was a new church in the area. Sansa had wanted to visit since it opened, but she hadn’t had the chance. Mourning was as good a reason as any to visit the house of God. She walked with Ros across the empty parking lot, past a fountain of stone angels, and into the dimly-lit building.

A priest was sweeping the wood floor. He lifted his head from his work and beamed when he saw Ros and Sansa. “Welcome to St. Mary’s Parish,” he said amiably. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I don't think so,” said Sansa. “I was just hoping to sit in the oratory for a minute or two.”

“Of course, of course. Just down the hall.”

“Thank you, Father.” Sansa dipped her fingertips in the pool of holy water, making the sign of the cross, and walked where the kind priest directed.

The oratory was a small place. A few rows of pews, lit candles and incense, simple stained glass windows, a wall of brochures for Catholic events and charities. The room was silent and empty. Sansa relaxed when Ros stood beside her.

“You know,” said Ros, “even as a prostitute, I still find places like this comforting.”

“Former prostitute,” said Sansa.

“Former. Of course.” Ros winked. “Here, love. Let’s take a seat.”

Sansa walked down the center aisle. She bowed to the altar and sat in a nearby pew. Ros sat beside her. They were both quiet, observing the wooden Christ on the cross, hanging with his crown of thorns. Sansa rolled her mother’s prayer beads between her fingers and inhaled the incense. Ros’s sigh echoed to the ceiling.

“I was in love once,” said Ros. Sansa looked at her curiously. “He was a simple boy, sweet and handsome and kind, and I was damaged.” Ros leaned back in the pew. “I broke his heart, in the end. I started working the streets because I needed money, but eventually I got in with a bad procurer and things went south. The boy promised me that we could work it out despite what I’d done, but I felt I’d hurt him too much. He deserved better. So I ran from him.”

Sansa frowned. She didn’t know why Ros was telling her this, but it felt important. “Why don’t you find him again?” Sansa asked. “I'm sure it’s not too late.”

“Believe me, I wish I could.” Ros swallowed hard. “He died of cancer six years ago.”

Sansa placed her hand on Ros’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright. That’s life, isn’t it? You have choices, and if you make certain ones you've got to live with the consequences.” Ros lifted her eyes to Christ. “I would hate to see you make a bad choice, Sansa. You don’t deserve this life. All this scheming and plotting. I hope that when this is all over, you can get away and live in peace with your brother and sister.”

“I plan to,” said Sansa. “We want to leave the country. I don’t know if Petyr would come with us, though.”

Ros squeezed Sansa’s hand. “Make him understand. I’d hate for Petyr to end up like me, full of regret that I didn’t keep what I had.”

Sansa wished she could read Ros’s mind, to see her pain and make it better. Ros deserved to be happy. She turned to Sansa after a long silence and patted her hand. “Go pray,” she encouraged. “God’s listening. I’ll just sit here, protecting you.”

“Thank you, Ros.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

Sansa pulled down the panel on the back of the pew and knelt with her mother’s rosary. She closed her eyes and clutched the beads as she made her way through the Hail Mary. The words fell from her lips, made simple by memory, while her mind spiraled with thoughts of what she should pray for. Safety, her sins, her family, peace. For Ros and her lover. For herself and Petyr. For Theon and his butchered soul. The list, it seemed, would never end.

The priest’s voice echoed down the hall. “Welcome to St. Mary’s Parish,” he said. “Is there anything I can—”

_Pop. Pop._

A gun fired twice.

Sansa shot up from her prayer. “Ros?”

“Shit.” Ros pulled her weapon from inside her coat and turned off the safety. She gripped Sansa’s arms. “Listen to me, Sansa. Run.”

“What? But what about—”

“I’ll be fine,” Ros insisted, “I’ll be right behind you. Call Varys.  _Don’t_  go back to Petyr at the manor, do you understand me?”

“But—”

“There’s no time to explain.” Ros kissed her cheek. “Go!”

Sansa held tight to Ros. She searched her eyes as she’d searched Robb’s, desperate for answers, knowing she would get none. In a rush of fear-driven courage, Sansa tore away from Ros and out the back door.

Sansa kicked off her heels and ran. She didn’t look back. She didn’t care about the sheets of rain drenching her to the bone, the gravel under her feet that turned to cold pavement and grass, the rush of wind in her ears, the rise of her dress that left her legs chilled. She ran toward the wrought-iron fence at the edge of the property.  _Get to the bars,_  she thought,  _get there and out, get help._

Her breath was stolen by a strong arm around her waist.

Sansa screamed. Her rosary fell to the ground. A massive hand clasped tight around her mouth and pulled her against a muscled chest. “Now now,” said her assailant, “be quiet. Wouldn’t want to wake anyone.”

“She’s a runner, that one,” said someone else.

“Not for long.”

Several men laughed. Sansa screamed against his palm and squirmed like mad. Her reward for her struggle was a needle in the neck. Her body fell limp. Her eyes slowly shut.

Ros bled out into the fountain of angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to hell


	26. Conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[ballad of a politician; regina spektor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnYDuKSzQpM)] ◆ [[you'll come around; sara jackson-holman](https://open.spotify.com/track/6TRMeQeqV5MAtH4SSxGTQj)] ◆ [[blackbird song; lee dewyze](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NxV7C6NELqA)]   
> 

  
**3 APRIL, 2017**

The massacre made the early morning news. Petyr watched, unfeeling, hands clasped tight around a hot cup of coffee the Lannister maid had brought him. He remained silent as the television reporter informed the nation of his crime. Police lights and caution tape littered the background.

_“Four people were brutally murdered inside St. Mary’s Parish late last night. Three priests were shot to death, alongside a woman believed to be a prostitute. The suspect in the murders was apprehended by police two hours later, roaming the highway with the gun still in his hands. He claimed allegiance to ISIS shortly after police made the arrest.”_

“Terrorism?” asked Cersei. “Too obvious, don’t you think?”

“Obvious,” said Roose Bolton, “but believable. ISIS is proud enough to have taken responsibility, and there’s nothing quite like foiled terrorism to put public pride in our Home Secretary.”

At the head of the table sat Tywin Lannister. He didn’t smile at the recognition, only nodded.

Littlefinger turned off the TV. He didn’t want to see Ros’s face on the screen, see the carnage he’d made. He chose his words wisely. “My associate didn’t have to die, Mr. Bolton. You told me your men would take Sansa. There didn’t need to be blood.”

“You killed my son,” Roose countered. “Consider this a late repayment.”

Cersei sneered. Petyr ground his teeth, choking his guilt until it pretended to disappear.

“Besides, your woman didn’t seem to know the plan. She killed two of my men. We had to disguise them as priests just to satisfy the news. She needed to be put down.”

Littlefinger couldn’t argue. “Fair enough.”

“Nothing wrong with a dead whore,” said Tywin. He pulled reading glasses from his pocket and fingered through a stack of paperwork to his left. “You have quite a lot of them, Littlefinger. I'm sure you can pick another.”

“All in due time,” he replied.

Cersei’s mood had taken a positive turn. She looked delighted, as though the sun shone through her wicked grin. “Where is the Stark girl being held? I’d like to speak with her.”

“She’s at headquarters,” said Tywin sternly. “You will not see her. Mr. Bolton and I are better suited to interrogation.”

Petyr didn’t like the use of that word;  _interrogation._  Neither did Cersei. “Sansa killed your grandson,” she asserted. “The king.”

“Joffrey’s killer was not a thirteen-year-old, anxiety-ridden Jew. We will find his assassin eventually, but for the last time, it was not Sansa Stark.” Tywin leaned forward to address Roose and Littlefinger, frustrated with his daughter. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss? I have to corral the press in an hour.”

Petyr drummed his fingers on the table. It was physical agony to keep his thoughts on business and away from Sansa, his Sansa. “How are we splitting it?” asked Littlefinger. “Twenty-five percent each way?”

“That would be fair if you’d helped us from the beginning,” said Cersei. “You haven’t.”

“Neither did I bar your way. If you recall, Your Grace, I was the first person to gain Sansa Stark’s trust and hand her over. Am I to be punished for doing what you could not?”

Cersei’s grin was filled with spite.

“My daughter and I will take sixty-five percent,” Tywin decided. “You two can split the rest. That is a fair exchange, given your amount of effort compared to ours.” He stood from the table. “I will contact you when the girl has agreed to forfeit her inheritance. The matter is settled.”

So it was. No one argued.

Littlefinger bowed his head as Tywin Lannister took his leave. Roose followed.  _That was easier than I anticipated,_  Petyr thought, but there was no joy in victory. Petyr straightened his suit jacket, tired and agitated from lack of sleep. He almost ignored Cersei’s voice calling out to him. “Littlefinger, do you have a moment?”

Petyr kept an appearance of pride. “Of course, Your Grace. Shall we sit again?”

“No, that’s quite alright. This won’t take long.” Cersei walked around the table and came to him. “I’m sure you’re aware by now that all my guard detail are dead, aside from Gregor Clegane.”

“Ah, yes. Arya Stark’s doing, I imagine. She must have finished what Harrold Hardyng started. Would you like me to locate her?”

“No need. The little ingrate will turn up one way or another, dead or alive.” Cersei folded her hands. “No, I need your protection. You’ve managed to keep your people close. Do you have any names of others I can seek out? Only until I find adequate replacements.”

Littlefinger smiled. “Certainly. Let me make a list, Your Grace, and send it to you before noon. I’m sure there are many who can fill these positions for you.”

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” Cersei turned to leave, until she stopped abruptly. “Oh. I almost forgot.” From her pocket, she pulled a set of sapphire prayer beads on a golden chain. Sansa’s rosary. She dropped it in Petyr’s hand. “Hopefully, in the future, you can keep your toys from breaking.”

Cersei left him there, in the wake of what he’d done. Petyr’s stomach lurched as he held Sansa’s beads in his fist. He couldn’t digest Cersei’s threat and the fear for Sansa’s safety at the same time. He buried his hesitations and the rosary deep in his pocket, and fled.

By the time Petyr drove away, he was openly miserable. He’d done his worst. The Starks would not forgive him. It was crippling, how much of him had broken apart now that Sansa was lost. Had he relied on her so much? The more Petyr dwelled on her, the more he came to realize that Sansa was a support beam he didn’t know was there, raising him higher, making him stronger. But Littlefinger had torn her down for the sake of his goals and lied when he claimed they were hers. As a result, Petyr caved in.

He took a deep breath when he pulled into the manor driveway. Facing everyone would not be pleasant. Petyr entered the house and closed the door behind him, feeling the chill of Sansa’s absence and the emptiness Ros left behind.

His phone fell from his pocket. Petyr sighed and leaned down to retrieve it.

_Thunk._

Petyr stood. The handle of Arya Stark’s dagger stuck out from the wooden door, wiggling from the force of a throw.

“Liar!” shouted Arya from the stairs. “Liar, liar, liar!”

She charged him. Petyr reached for his gun, but Jon grabbed Arya around the waist and held her back. “Arya!” he ordered, “Arya, stop!”

“He betrayed us!” she cried. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him!”

Mayana and Olyvar ran in from the kitchen. Olyvar looked grim and Mayana’s cheeks were tear-stained. The three of them consoled Arya enough to keep her steady. Petyr yanked the dagger from the door and killed his feelings in their crib.

The four of them argued over how to handle the situation, but Petyr could not help them. Mayana turned to him from the group. If anyone would still be on his side, it would be her. Petyr felt relief when she approached him. “Are we calm now?” he asked. “I promise, everything can be explained.”

Mayana struck him with her bare fist. Petyr fell back against the door, holding his cheek.

Everyone fell silent.

“You  _son of a bitch!_ ” Mayana screamed. “You betrayed her! You betrayed all of us!”

“Mayana—”

“Shut up!” She wiped angry tears from her eyes. “When you brought Sansa here, you told us to watch out for her, this teenage girl, and we had to just deal with it. You didn't even ask us how we felt. But now that we all care for her you just take her away? And Ros,” Mayana sobbed, “she was the best of us. The only one who had a heart she was proud of.”

Petyr rubbed his face where Mayana had punched him. He felt blood. He felt empty.

“Get my knife,” said Arya from the staircase. “Mayana, get Needle and I’ll do it for you.”

“No one’s killin’ anybody.” A distressed Jon Stark kept his sister held by the shoulder. “We need to find out exactly what ‘appened.”

“We know what happened!” Arya shouted. “Stop being stupid, Jon! You always give him the benefit of the doubt, but look where Sansa is now! We _lost_ her!”

“Please, the shouting,” groaned Olyvar. His eyes were red. Petyr had never seen Olyvar cry before.

Jon looked his sister in the eye. “We need to be careful, Arya. This might be part of a plan. When I was with the Night’s Watch, we—”

“I don’t care,” spat Arya. “I don’t want to hear what he has to say.” She shoved Jon away, throwing another dagger at Petyr with her eyes. “I want him dead.”

Arya stormed up the stairs. Jon followed her. Olyvar and Mayana stood in the entryway, broken-hearted and scorned. Petyr clenched his fists. “I can explain.”

“You’d damn well better.” Mayana walked into the living room. Olyvar went with her. Petyr could hear the Starks yelling at each other upstairs, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Grimly, Petyr went to his companions and sat down in the fireside chair. Ros’s chair. Her perfume was in the fabric.

No one said anything for a long time. It felt wrong to be without Sansa and Ros, both emotional and spiritual anchors for the household. Both gone.

Petyr sighed. He rubbed his face, composure broken.

“What did you do?” Mayana asked.

Petyr pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “I gave Sansa to the Lannisters and Roose Bolton,” he said. “In exchange for their trust.”

“Why the hell…?”

Jon entered the room, distraught. He sat beside Olyvar on the sofa and didn’t spare Petyr a glance. “My sister won’t be joinin’ us,” he said. “Whatever we talk about here, I’ll pass on to her.”

“She’d rather hear it from you, anyway.” Mayana patted Jon on the shoulder. “Go on, Pete.”

Petyr drew in so deep from his cigarette that his lungs singed. “I traded Sansa for Lannister loyalty. I did the one thing they believed I wouldn’t do, and now I have their trust.”

“But why?” asked Olyvar. “Why would you do that to her?”

“To get access to MI5, steal the evidence of the Stark coverup, and go public with it. To prove that the Lannisters and Boltons conspired to kill the Starks and steal their fortune.”

Mayana and Olyvar exchanged a look. They knew how Petyr functioned, knew his plan was thought-out and geared for success if the pieces fell into place. Jon merely shook his head. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps. But Sansa wants justice, and this was the fastest way—”

“She doesn’t care about justice!” shouted Jon. The room fell quiet. “She just — she just wants to be happy. If you don’t know that, you don’t know her at all.”

Petyr felt the stab of Jon’s words. He leaned forward, resting his elbows unprofessionally on his knees. “She _does_  care about justice,” Petyr countered. “She’ll care even more when she’s safe.”

“There could have been another way,” said Mayana, arms folded over her chest. “You didn’t even come to us for help. You didn’t tell us.”

“Your reactions to everything had to be genuine if they were to be believed.”

Mayana made a loud, rude noise.

“Did you tell Ros?” Olyvar questioned. “She came to Mayana and I and told us you were up to something, but we didn’t believe her. Did she know?”

Petyr inhaled from his cigarette. “She had her suspicions, but I told her nothing. She wasn’t supposed to die. The Starks were supposed to go to the church together, but Ros must've sensed I was up to something and offered to go instead. Roose said her death was payment for Ramsay.” Petyr scoffed. “Ironic. Ros warned me that killing Ramsay too soon was a bad idea, but I didn’t listen. Sansa’s pain clouded my judgment.”

“Didn’t seem to stop you this time,” said Olyvar.

“What do you know?” shouted Petyr as he stood. “You, Mayana, Ros, all of you adjusted to Sansa being here without a problem. You were able to do your jobs without being compromised by her, but she dismantled everything I’ve ever known to be true.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, turning helplessly to the fireplace. “She ruined me.”

Long silence.

Mayana came to him, putting her hand on Petyr’s shoulder. He knew she could feel him falling apart. “You’re like a brother to me,” she said, “and I’ll help you get Sansa back. But I don’t feel bad for you.”

Petyr supposed that was fair enough. “I don’t want your pity.”

“Then maybe you should figure out what you  _do_  want, Pete. Because I won’t let that girl suffer anymore, even if it means letting her go for good.”

Separation from Sansa was unacceptable. Petyr ignored Mayana’s comment for now, finishing his cigarette and throwing the rest in the fireplace. Mayana moved to the sofa where Olyvar and Jon sat. “Well?”

“I’ll help,” said Olyvar. “But I agree with Mayana. If you can talk your way out of this one, Petyr, I’ll be overjoyed to have Sansa back. But you need to check your actions.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve been her therapist. She told me everything. What she went through with Ramsay.”

“I know,” said Petyr.

“No you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have handed her back to his father.”

“Enough,” Mayana pleaded before Petyr could respond. She rubbed her temples and her voice cracked. “God, enough.”

Petyr reluctantly backed down. Olyvar moved to Mayana’s side, rubbing her back, leaving Petyr alone on the other side of the room.

All of them turned to Jon.

Jon stood, good soldier that he was, and took a breath. He walked across the room to Petyr. Both men straightened their shoulders. “I’m in,” he said. “Arya is too.”

Petyr sighed in slight relief. “I’m glad. I’ll have need of you.”

Jon gripped hard on Petyr’s shoulder as he tried to leave, so hard that his muscles ached. _This_  was the fearless warrior Petyr had heard so much about. “We’re taking Sansa when this is over,” Jon commanded. “No exceptions. You’ll never see her again.”

 _Is that what you think?_  Petyr shot Jon’s glare back at him, but didn’t have the energy to make a comment. No one said a word when Jon left the room. Mayana and Olyvar followed him out, leaving Petyr alone with the crackling fireplace. He leaned his hand on the mantle. All he could think of was how the flames looked like tendrils of Sansa’s hair.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Sleep never came to him. Petyr couldn’t bear to lay in bed, the one he shared with Sansa, the one that smelled like her. He drank several glasses of whiskey and laid on the couch by his bedroom fireplace. He wasn’t himself. Petyr felt a scattered mess, as if Sansa had unzipped his spine and spilled him everywhere at once. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Petyr lay on his back, arm draped over his eyes, trying to stay distracted from the chaos he was beginning to hate.

Petyr was able to fall into sub-par slumber until he heard his door slowly open. No footsteps. Petyr figured the girl would come to uphold her promise. He had half a mind to let her.

Petyr opened his eyes and stared down the barrel of Arya Stark’s gun.

“That’s a cruel way to kill a man,” he said. “Unarmed and defenseless in his own room.”

“It’s crueler to do what you did.” Arya tilted her head to the side. Petyr read her danger, her wild soul. “No one hurts my family and lives.”

“A shame, then, that the Lannisters still draw breath.”

“I’m getting there,” said Arya. “One at a time.”

Petyr held her gaze. “Whether you believe me or not is immaterial. I have what you need, and killing me will damn Sansa to a fate worse than before.”

“Nothing’s worse than you,” she said.

“Ramsay Bolton might beg to differ.”

Arya’s confidence wavered. She stepped back, giving Petyr room to sit upright. “I don’t trust you,” she told him.

“Nor should you. But your sister…” Petyr cleared his throat. “She’s mine. Ros was mine, and our enemies have taken them both. Vengeance is what we seek, you and I. That, you can trust.”

“So you’re a liar who tells the truth?” Arya shook her head. “That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve done the same. No One, a mysterious fighter in Jaqen H’gar’s cages. Cat, a homeless orphan who lives under a bridge. Beth, a waitress in a small tavern. And Mercy, the Jewish girl seeking refuge for Hanukkah.” He spread his hands. “All true. All false.”

Arya shoved her gun forward. “Don’t compare the two of us. I’d _never_ hurt Sansa. We fight a lot, but she’s my sister and I—” She paused. “I don’t hate her.”

“I don’t hate her either,” said Petyr. “Quite the contrary.”

“Then why did you sell her out?”

“I explained earlier. You decided not to listen.”

“No explanation is good enough for this.” Arya stepped closer, expression torn between hatred and tears. “I don’t need you. Neither does Sansa.”

“I’m the only one who can get her out alive,” said Petyr, ignoring the weapon in his face. “But not without your help. That’s why I brought you here in the first place.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “Jon told me your plan.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“What’s to stop me from killing you now and carrying out that plan on my own?”

“You need me to get into MI5,” said Petyr. “You can’t infiltrate a government agency on your own, no matter how good you think you are.”

“I’m better than you think,” she countered.

“Perhaps.” An idea came to him. Two birds, one stone. “You were the one who sent the files on Walder Frey’s trafficking ring to Officer Tarth, weren’t you?”

“Maybe,” said Arya.

“Then you might be the perfect one to help me.” Petyr motioned to his closet. “You could wear your sister’s clothes with a bit of tailoring, yes? And learn to walk in heels?”

Arya scowled. “Why?”

Petyr stood from the sofa. Arya raised her weapon, but Petyr knew she wouldn’t pull the trigger. He dared to press the barrel to his chest. “You want to be involved in rescuing your sister and getting the justice you seek,” he said. “I have the perfect way. Come with me to MI5. We’ll steal the Lannisters’ confidential files, present the evidence of your family’s murder to Prime Minister Targaryen, and put this all to rest.”

The offer was too tempting for a hothead like Arya Stark. She pulled back her gun, shoving it in the back of her jeans, eyes lethal. “I’ll do it,” she said spitefully. "But after Sansa’s back,  _you’re dead._ ”

Petyr watched Arya storm out of the room. A smirk crossed his face, quickly replaced by a frown. The satisfaction didn't last. Petyr curled up on the couch again, not bothering to turn off the lights, and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh this is starting to hurt my heart :( hang on lovelies, we're getting there! hopefully this chapter answered a couple questions.~ let me know your thoughts!


	27. Happiness Blinds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**  
>  [[everybody wants to rule the world; lorde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaVA6sgOpws)] ◆ [[ocean; liza anne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNhBzh8Qe6Y)]  
>   
> "I am not proud, but I am happy, and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride."  
> \- Edmond Dantes, _The Count of Monte Cristo_  
> 

  
**3 APRIL, 2017**

Sansa woke to blistering white light. She lifted her hands to shield herself, blinking hard until her eyes adjusted. Blank walls and a blue door, a wide mirror to her left. Someone had handcuffed her to a table and chair. She still wore her black dress from Theon’s funeral, hair half-out of its styled bun. Sansa looked at herself in the mirror. Her temple was crusted with dried blood, lips chapped, bare feet filthy from her failed escape. Her clothes smelled of rain and cherry cigars.

She was alone. Sansa turned her head as far as she could to see if anyone was behind her, but there was nothing. Only emptiness, and the terror in its wake.

The door opened. Roose Bolton entered by himself, dressed in a suit and tie, looking like the CEO he once was. He took the seat opposite Sansa. The table separated them only just. She held his stare and didn’t back down, but being near him brought back memories she'd rather forget.

“How do you feel?” asked Roose.

Sansa's throat was scratchy and raw. “Threatened.”

“I’m not surprised. You went through quite the ordeal under my care. Seeing me again must be hard for you.”

“No harder than it always was.”

Roose pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. The smoke smelled like her clothes, sickly sweet, artificial.  _How long has he been watching me?_  “I always wondered why you never ended my son’s treatment of you while you had the chance,” he said. “I’m curious.”

“Ended?” spat Sansa. “Nothing Ramsay did to me was my fault.”

“Yet you could have made him stop,” said Roose. “All it would’ve taken was your signature, and Ramsay would never have touched you again.”

“I don’t believe you. Ramsay made false promises just like you. He would’ve done whatever he wanted with me after I signed those papers. That’s why I killed him.”

Roose Bolton’s eyes grew so cold that Sansa shivered. He stood from his chair. Metal scraped the tile floor. He paced in front of the table, letting her sit in the fault of her words until he broke the silence. “Did Ramsay ever tell you how he was conceived?”

Sansa didn’t want to answer. She clasped her hands in her lap and stayed still.

“I was competing with another wealthy man for stock in a rising company. He always seemed to get the better end of certain deals. Naturally, I had to eliminate him.” Smoke passed through Roose’s smile. “I snuck into his home, killed him in his bed and raped his young wife, still covered in his blood. Nine months later, she brought me a baby. I nearly sent the child away until I looked at him. And I knew Ramsay was mine.”

 _That’s what Ramsay wanted from me,_  Sansa realized, trying not to vomit.  _He wanted to be like his father._

“Ramsay was always… enthusiastic about following in my footsteps,” Roose continued, making his way around the table. “I should have suspected that he would try to breed you. When he came to me with the idea, I almost told him no, but he wanted to prove himself worthy of me. He was admirable that way.”

“Admirable,” scoffed Sansa. She could barely speak, fighting the urge to shake and sob.

Roose came to her side. He leaned on the table and folded his arms. Sansa couldn’t move away. “Shall I ask again, Miss Stark? Why didn’t you stop my son while you could?”

“It’s not my fault,” Sansa asserted, tears in her eyes. “He never would have stopped because I never would’ve given up my family’s money. All Ramsay’s actions earned him was death.”

Roose’s grin soured. He pressed his palm to the table, leaning close to her like a viper. Sansa could smell stale cherry and tobacco on his breath. She tried to cringe away, but she could not go far, and Roose continued to intimidate her with his frightening sense of calm. “Look at me.”

Sansa did. His eyes were venomous.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking my son’s methods are off limits to me. I could make you suffer more than he ever did.”

Sansa did not falter. “Whatever happens, I will not break.”

The door to the room opened. In walked Tywin Lannister, Joffrey's grandfather, the man who pulled the strings, wearing a suit and a stern look. Sansa paled when she saw him. “Enough,” said Tywin. His booming voice echoed off the walls. “Your time is up.”

Roose moved away from Sansa on command. He straightened his tie as Tywin took a seat across from where Sansa sat helpless, folding his hands atop the table. Sansa took a moment to catch her breath. Whatever they were playing at, she would fight them, using wit and will for fists. She knew how to play the captive game.

“Where am I?” asked Sansa, while she still could.

“MI5 Headquarters in London,” said Tywin. “Would you like something to drink? We can’t have you getting dehydrated.”

Sansa nodded. She needed to stay healthy if she was to escape. Moments later, a man in black came in and placed a glass of water in front of her before leaving the room again. Sansa drank gratefully. The water was ice cold, refreshing in her mouth, and she gulped it down until there was nothing left.

“Now,” said Tywin. “We have much to discuss.”

“No we don’t. I already know what you want.” Sansa leaned back in her chair, vaguely aware of Roose Bolton pacing behind her.

“I’m sure you do,” said Tywin. “That will make this easier.”

“But why? Your family is one of the richest in Europe. You own gold mines. Why is my father’s money so important to you?”

Tywin’s reply was unreadable silence. Sansa used her mind and worked through her question on her own.  _He’s not wearing any gold,_  she observed,  _his tie has a thread sticking out. His cuff links are three years out of fashion and he’s not clean-shaven._  “You don’t have money,” she muttered.

“The mines went dry years ago. Besides, gold is not worth what it once was. Your father’s fortune will repair the damage done to the Lannister name as a result.”

Sansa didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. “You want my inheritance, generations of Stark savings just so you can keep living in luxury?” Her throat burned. “That’s what you killed my family for?”

Roose chuckled behind her. “It was much more complicated than that, I assure you. Your father was poking around in our business. Found things he wasn’t supposed to find.”

Sansa came to the same conclusion. “All that about the queen and her brother,” she muttered dismally. “It’s true? Father found out. You were sex trafficking women, Ramsay was killing people and you covered it up…” Sansa’s posture fell. “He must’ve found out you were spying on Robb, too.”

“Robb Stark was a political prodigy,” said Tywin. “I did not want him in my government.”

“Your government,” breathed Sansa. _I can’t believe this._

“Mr. Bolton forged a change of custody form, for you, to become your legal guardian after your family’s deaths. He would marry you to Ramsay and try to gain your fortune the peaceful way. You did not agree.”

She covered her face and leaned her elbows on the table, swallowing bile. _My family died for being too smart_ , she grieved.  _I was raped for money._

“And now Littlefinger has betrayed you,” said Tywin. “Must be difficult, knowing you were close to justice.”

Sansa raised her head. _Petyr?_  “He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He’ll find out where I am, he’ll hurt you for this.”

“Really?” Roose Bolton stood beside Sansa and held out his phone. “Perhaps I should enlighten you.”

Sansa read the screen when he showed it to her.

 _04/02/2017, 11:37PM - From: Littlefinger_  
_St Mary’s Parish, oratory. She’s there._

Sansa froze. She read the text a hundred times, scanning the words frantically in hopes they would morph and change.

“He told us where you were because we made a deal,” said Roose. “You, for a percentage of your money.”

“No.” Sansa shook her head wildly. “You’re lying.”

“This is his number, yes?” Roose showed her. Sansa read the digits and clasped her mouth to hold back a sob. _It’s not, it can’t be, he protected me, he loves me…_

Tywin pulled a pen from his pocket and placed it near Sansa’s hand. From his suit jacket, he procured a file and passed it across the table to her. “Sign on the highlighted areas,” he demanded. “Then this will all be over.”

Sansa opened the file with shaking hands. She could hardly read the words through teary eyes. There were insurance documents, statements to forfeit her rights of inheritance, already signed by the beneficiary, Tywin Lannister. Sansa's stomach lurched. Her survival was paramount, it had always been, but reading the printed words of her defeat made the promise of going home after signing impossible. It would not be worth it.

“I can’t,” she muttered.

“Pardon?”

“I can’t do it.” Sansa pushed the file away from her. “I won’t.”

“Your stubbornness will get you nowhere, girl.”

“I don't care.”

“There will be pain,” warned Tywin. “You understand that?”

“Yes. But I won’t sign those papers, no matter what.”

Roose Bolton sighed behind her. “I told you. She refuses to bend.”

“Give her time,” said Tywin. “She’ll learn. She has yet to see how persuasive I can be.”

Sansa glared at him. Didn’t they know she was unbreakable?

Roose Bolton returned to Tywin’s side when he stood. “Put her in a cell,” Tywin said, “down with the other ones. Give her the night to think about her decision. Tomorrow, perhaps she’ll see sense.”

The two men left her in the interrogation room. Only when they'd gone did Sansa’s mask slip away. Three agents in suits unlocked a trembling Sansa from her handcuffs and forced her to her feet. She walked where they directed, submitted to big hands and foul mouths, descending in an elevator to a lower floor. She wasn’t given shoes to cover her feet. No food, no blanket to sleep with, no soap for a shower.

To Sansa’s dismay, she was a prisoner again.

A collection of holding cells gathered at the end of a long hall. Made of bulletproof glass, locked with badge scanners for agent use only. One of her guards held his badge to the reader. The cell door opened. Sansa was shoved inside, so hard that she almost hit the back wall, and the door locked shut behind her. The agents were gone by the time she turned around. A single light in the ceiling flickered and the air was stagnant, thick, choking her with the reality of her new captivity.

Sansa curled up on the cold floor and wept. She couldn’t remember the reason for her tears anymore. Family? Friends? Love? She’d wept so often that sorrow was beginning to feel pointless. _How many times do I have to cry before this is over?_  she wondered, seeing Ros and her family when she closed her eyes.  _When will it stop hurting?_

“Girl keeps crying,” said a man in an opposite cell.

“A pretty sight,” said another. “Pretty girls on the floor.”

“Bugger off,” barked a voice like sandpaper. It came from the cell to Sansa’s right, a figure in the shadows. “Shut your mouths and leave the girl alone.”

 _I know that voice._  She ignored the others, crawling desperately to the edge of her cell and pressing her hands up to the glass.

The half-burned face of Sandor Clegane peered at her with eyes of stone.

“It’s you,” she breathed.

Sandor came to her, at the edge of his own cell, sitting cross-legged in front of the window that separated them. His frown spoke his concern for her. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I was taken.” Sansa's hands fell from the glass. She stared at the floor, trapped in memory.

“Are you alright, little bird?”

Sansa wanted to cry again. “No,” she admitted. “Everything’s wrong. I was—”

“Careful,” he warned, pointing to the ceiling. “Don’t know which fuckers are listening.”

Sansa swallowed her emotions and regained herself enough to think. She settled down to a more comfortable position, crossing her legs like he had. “I was taken while I was trying to pray. My friend Ros, she…” Sansa blinked through tears that wouldn't leave. “She was killed.”  _All because she wanted to protect me from Petyr._

_Petyr…_

“I’m happy to see you at least,” she said to change the topic. “Strange as it sounds.”

“No need to lie, girl. My face ain’t a pleasant one.”

“That never mattered to me.”

Sandor looked uncomfortable. When he turned his head, Sansa noticed a swollen, aggravated bruise on his left eye, and a healing cut on his cheek.  _He’s suffered here, too._

“What are you doing here?” Sandor asked.

Sansa stared at the ground again. She remembered Petyr convincing her to go to St. Mary's, his gentle embrace, his lingering kiss, his last words to her:  _be careful, my love._  “Littlefinger betrayed me.”

“Littlefinger?” said Sandor. “The little rat bastard with the mustache?”

She couldn’t help but chuckle. Her chuckle turned sour at the memory of how that mustache had felt on her skin. “Yeah… him.”

Her tears returned. Sansa tightened her fists and sobbed without restraint, as though her chest cavity had been caved in by a hammer. Sansa wept so hard that she began to feel dizzy, her head full to bursting with blood and pulsing pain. The thought that Petyr had taken advantage of her trust was too much to bear, but the worst part was how deeply she still yearned for his comfort.

 _Think rationally, Sansa, think rationally. It’s too soon to be weak._  She forced herself to steady the hysteria, hand on her chest, palm pressed to the cold tile floor. She closed her eyes and worked through the events to find hints she’d missed. Petyr had held her. Told her to be safe. _I want their corporation to burn,_  he’d said long ago.  _We kill them._  After everything Petyr and Sansa had endured together, it seemed improbable for him to betray her now when he could have hundreds of times before.

But it didn't matter in the end. Ramsay had violated her body, and Petyr had violated her heart.

Sansa brushed dirt off the soles of her feet. “There are two parts to Littlefinger,” she said carefully. “There’s a good side and a darker one. Sometimes he’s sweet, he’s gentle and funny and romantic…” Sansa wiped her tears. “But other times, he’s Littlefinger. Businessman, political saboteur, manipulator. Somehow I still loved him for it. But both sides always have a plan, you know? I don’t think he would have left me here unless there was a reason for it. He loves me.” Sansa sighed. She couldn't think straight, and her words sounded ridiculous now. “I don’t know.”

Sandor laughed, a deep and harsh sound that cut her like a knife. “You’re crying so hard you can barely open your eyes, and you’re still defendin’ the fucker?”

“I have to.” Another tear fell down her cheek. She wiped it away. “Without hope, I’m lost.”

Sandor was quiet. Sansa picked at the fraying hem of her dress, thinking of the funeral it’d been worn for, of the funerals she’d yet to attend. It kept her distracted from this new reality, and the memories of Ramsay that came with it.

Sandor released a long sigh. “For your sake, little bird, I hope you’re right.”

“Me too.”

Sansa would not rely on anyone to save her. She would do what she must to survive. She would leave all her enemies in the dust of her freedom, or die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adlksjakldgjaslkj  
> okay, so since people were upset about petyr's actions, i talked about it in a blog post [here](http://petyrs.tumblr.com/post/158389616168/i-must-confess-that-when-i-read-the-last-chapter-i). it explains things a bit. basically, petyr is selfish and this fic was never meant to make it seem like this was a good relationship, because it's not healthy and never was, despite how cute they seem. it's MESSY  
> anyway <3 i love you guys. stick with me till the end. i promise the payoff is worth the pain. promise.  
> xoxo


	28. King of the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[light of the seven; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9PXLTLuuSE)] ◆ [[medicine; daughter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM2lObw1CbY)]   
> 

  
**4 APRIL, 2017**

Petyr woke an hour before dawn. He showered and washed his face, combed his hair, shaved his stubbled cheeks. Put on a suit of the highest quality. Business blue with a patterned tie. Shiny leather shoes, his favorite collar stays, a handkerchief in his breast pocket. He finished with a patch of cologne on the sides of his neck. Subtle, but necessary. Tywin appreciated style. Petyr looked in the mirror and saw an image that used to make him proud, and felt nothing.

When Petyr came down to the kitchen, Olyvar was heating leftover french toast in the microwave. “This is the last meal of Ros’s we’ll ever get to eat,” he said with a glare in Petyr’s direction. Petyr looked at the plate of toast saved for him on the counter, smelled the butter and cinnamon that Ros loved to cook with. He pushed it away. He wasn’t hungry.

By eight, the household was awake and deep in preparation. Mayana was dressing Arya Stark upstairs and Jon was setting up the computers in the library. Petyr found Jon there, surrounded by three different monitors. One was turned on. The smiling face of a hijabi woman soured when she saw Petyr approach. Jon turned and frowned, too.

“This must be Val,” said Petyr, pointing to the screen. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Not really,” said the woman with her thick Afghan accent. She eyed Petyr up and down. “But I should thank you for putting me up here in Palestine. You saved my life.”

 _You hear that, Jon?_  Petyr almost asked, but he settled for a smile instead. “It was the least I could do for a woman such as yourself.”

“I would be flattered if I did not know you better.”

Petyr saw fire in Val. He expected nothing less.

With Val’s disdain on his mind, Petyr sat at one of the other computers, turning it on and opening the necessary programs. Jon began speaking to his wife in Pashto so Petyr wouldn’t be able to understand.

Olyvar entered the library. He brought Jon coffee and a plate of breakfast, and Petyr, nothing. He sat at the free monitor and got to work. No “hello” or “good morning.” Petyr could feel ice from all angles, and knew it was well-deserved.

“Get Mr. Tarly and Olenna on the phone,” Petyr instructed, standing from his chair. "I'll check on the girls."

“Olenna Tyrell won’t be coming,” said Olyvar with a shrug. “She has decided she wants nothing to do with you anymore.”

Petyr paused. “Really?”

“I believe she said something along the lines of, ‘I have no desire to work with monsters who hurt innocent girls.’”

Petyr scoffed. Olenna made him sound like Ramsay, and any sane person would find that comparison lacking. “Her loss, then.”

No response. Petyr left the library and climbed the steps in haste.

Arya’s room, the one she shared with Jon, was at the farthest end of the second-floor hallway.  _To be away from you two,_  she’d once told Sansa. Petyr found himself jogging by the time he pushed open the door. Mayana was putting final touches on the girl’s makeup. Neither of them greeted Petyr, but Mayana turned the teenager around to him when her disguise was complete. “What do you think?”

No longer did the girl look like Arya Stark. Her hair was dyed a chestnut brown, up in a bun with a pearl clip. Thin glasses framed her eyes, irises made hazel with contact lenses, and decent makeup aged her to her early twenties at least. A stuffed bra accented her chest to make her look older, short heels to make her legs look long, giving her an allusion of height and maturity, neither of which Arya had. Her attire was purely professional. Black slacks and a white button-down blouse, and a jacket to match. Simple earrings, a fake engagement ring, neutral-colored lips and subtle perfume. Only her scowl blew the cover of an angry Stark.

Petyr stepped forward to examine her. He cupped her chin to look at her makeup, but Arya violently slapped his hand away. “Arya,” warned Mayana. She didn't listen. Petyr didn’t have the energy to snap at her.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Lyanna,” Arya replied.

“Using the name of your dead aunt? No. Pick something else.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “Mercedene.”

“Mercedene what?”

“Mercedene Williams. I’m twenty-three. I go to school at Oxford. I’m studying criminal justice and computer science. I have an apartment in Lewisham with my fiancée and my pet dog. I specialize in computer technologies, coding and hardware mechanics.”

“Why are you going to MI5?”

“I’m a new intern. Agent Brune is giving me a tour of the area and teaching me the ropes before I get started.”

“Good.” Petyr scratched his chin as he looked at her, picking out her flaws. “Mayana did good work on you. You’re hardly recognizable.” He reached for her shoulders, but stopped when Arya moved away. “Let me,” he said, “it’ll help you fit in. Your posture is atrocious.”

“ _You’re_  atrocious.”

Petyr gave her a pointed look before she gave in. Arya moved closer so he could correct her stance. “Shoulders back,” he instructed, showing her how. “Spine straight. Center yourself here.” He made a fist and gently pushed into her gut. “Stand tall, but don’t bring attention to yourself.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

“Yep.”

Petyr pointed in her face, with authority. “And listen when you’re told to do something. This is not a time for games. This is a sensitive, high-risk mission that requires your full cooperation.”

“I get it,” snapped Arya. “But this is the only time I’m helping you. That’s something  _you’d_  better get.”

Petyr turned to Mayana, staring blankly at her Tweety Bird pajamas and “Fuck You” sweatshirt. An interesting contrast. “I assume you’re ready as well?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she said.

Arya grabbed her brother’s gun and stuffed it in the back of her slacks. Petyr was strangely impressed by her, this almost-sixteen-year-old girl doing whatever it took to save her family, even at the cost of her childhood. She would never be normal. He related to her that way.

Petyr was nearly out the door when he noticed Arya’s final piece of jewelry. He pointed to the gold Star of David around her neck, insistent. “That has to go.”

“What? No it doesn’t, don’t touch it.”

“I already tried,” said Mayana with a shake of her head. “She won’t take it off.”

Petyr made a fist. He could understand pride in a symbol bigger than oneself, but to ignore its risk to her life was foolish.

It was so very Sansa.

Petyr dropped the subject. “Follow me,” he ordered, and promptly left the room.

The three of them descended the stairs. Petyr led them back to the library, and Jon looked like he was going to fall out of his chair when he saw his sister. “Jesus,” he said, “you look like a girl.”

“Shut up.” Arya folded her arms. “I hate this.”

“It’s for your protection, kiddo. I promise.” Mayana put her hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Just go with it for a few hours. It’ll be over soon.”

Samwell Tarly’s round face smiled from the second monitor. “I think you look really nice,” he said. Arya managed a tiny smile in return, and dropped her arms to her side.

Petyr moved past them. He retrieved several sets of easily hideable wireless earpieces and handed them to each person, keeping his own in his pocket. “Alright,” he said with a clap of his hands. “Are we ready for the final review?”

No one answered. Petyr scanned everyone’s faces, from Arya’s scowl to Mayana’s impatience, to Olyvar thinking his nails more interesting than what Petyr had to say. He was fully aware of the hatred they felt for him, but he continued because he must. Petyr laid out a map of MI5 Headquarters on a table and told everyone to gather around him.

“Miss Stark and Agent Brune will ride in a separate car and enter the Thames House after me,” said Petyr. “You will use the security lane Lothor has cleared to get your weapons and gear into the building without triggering any alarms. Lothor will show you around a bit to make your fake internship believable before taking you to one of the security rooms.” Petyr pointed to the location on the map. “By this time, I will be in the building awaiting Tywin Lannister and Jon will have hacked the video surveillance. Mayana and Olyvar will stay here and keep an eye on overall building functions. When Val and Samwell get clearance from Mayana, they will begin a cyber assault on the facility, drawing Tywin’s attention away. Jon will block the cameras from seeing me where I go throughout the building, and Arya will keep an eye on Tywin. I’ll enter his office during the assault, take the information I need from his computer, and pass it to Lothor. Then I’ll meet with Tywin after the assault ends, if he still desires to see me, and we all leave the building fairly quickly.”

Sam whistled. “Did you think all this up in a day?”

“More or less,” said Petyr.

Val responded with something in Pashto. Jon chuckled, then pretended he hadn’t.

“You should get going.” Mayana tossed car keys to Petyr across the table. “And don’t forget to smile, asshole.”

Petyr didn’t know if she really meant it. He toyed with the keys in his hand and summoned Arya and Jon to his side, exiting the library in favor of the driveway. Arya’s heels clicked behind him.

After unlocking his Bentley, Petyr sat behind the wheel, rolling down the window to give Arya and Jon final direction. “Wait for Lothor here. He should arrive in a few minutes.”

“No tricks?” asked Jon.

“No tricks.”  _Not when Sansa’s life is in danger._  Petyr pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road, guilt and red hair on his mind.

The drive was quiet. Shorter than he'd hoped. Petyr parked where Tywin Lannister had told him and stepped out into the freshness of a spring breeze under grey clouds. It didn’t feel refreshing. Petyr crossed the street and entered headquarters on his own, pulling open the heavy glass doors of the historical Thames House. He observed the different security checkpoints to find the one Lothor had sabotaged.

 _“I see you,”_  said Mayana in his earpiece.  _“Lothor said the line with the bushy brunette is the one.”_

Petyr found her. A brown-haired officer with equally brown eyes, who barely fit into her uniform. Her nametag read “ROYCE.” Petyr approached her, tossing his wallet and keys on the conveyer belt and spreading his arms so she could scan him with a metal detector. “You must be Myranda,” he said.

The woman gave a flirty grin. “Well, Mr. Littlefinger, I didn’t think you’d know me by name.” She walked to him with a swing of her hips. “Do you mind if I pat you down?”

On any other day, Petyr would have indulged her, letting his ego take the generous stroke or two. But he wasn’t in the mood. “Be gentle,” was all he could manage.

Myranda giggled. She scanned him with the metal detector, one that was clearly faulty, and patted him down around the waist and legs. He tensed when she reached his thighs.  _Get on with it,_  he thought flatly, faking a smile when she came away at last. “You’re good,” she said. “Good luck.”

Chivalry would get him far. “Thank you, Ms. Royce.” He kissed her cheek. “I look forward to being patted down again.”

“Perhaps I’ll go harder next time.” She winked. Petyr faked his amusement until he’d left her presence entirely, and his smile fell.

Petyr checked in with the secretary at the front desk and sat down in a poorly decorated lobby. Tywin Lannister would fetch him when he was ready. Petyr took a magazine from one of the side tables and crossed one leg over the other, opening the pages on his lap with little interest. “I’m here,” he said quietly.

 _“I’m all set up,”_  said Jon.

 _“Everything looks good on our end,”_  said Mayana. Petyr heard her munching on potato chips.  _“I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”_

 _“Lothor and I just got here,”_  said Arya.  _“This Myranda lady is weird.”_

Petyr kept an eye on his surroundings, looking for anyone who was out of place or observing him too closely. For all intents and purposes, it seemed to be an average day at the Thames House. He checked his watch. “Where is Tywin now?”

 _“In his office,”_  said Olyvar.  _“Talking to an awfully large man. Name badge says—”_ He paused.

“Clegane?” Petyr asked.

 _“I thought you already got him,”_  said Arya harshly.

 _“No,”_  Mayana replied.  _“He was the only one we missed.”_

Petyr sighed. “Just get set up, Miss Stark. Don’t worry about Gregor.” He continued pretending to read a magazine, flipping the page. The headline for the next article was about commitment issues. He flipped again.

 _“Okay,”_  said Arya after a quarter hour.  _“I’m in a lower security room all set up.”_

 _“You hear that?”_  said Mayana.  _“You’re good to go, Val and Sam. Light ‘em up.”_

Petyr glanced around. After a few minutes, several agents rushed frantically toward the left end of the building, saying something about a security breach. He couldn’t help but grin. “Where is Tywin now?”

 _“On his way to the briefing room,”_  said Jon.  _“Arya’s in the clear. I don’t see anything that could get in her way, no one’s headed there at all…”_

He stopped talking. Petyr looked up from his magazine.

_“I found Sansa.”_

“Where?”

 _“Don’t,”_  Mayana warned.

Petyr stood from his seat. “Tell me where.”

 _“I’m not sure,”_  Jon replied.  _“An interrogation room I think?”_

 _“I can see her too,”_  said Arya.  _“And a map. She’s on the third floor down, in an interrogation room off a blue hall. It’s got a rubbish bin by it.”_

Petyr set down the magazine and started walking, chest thrumming with every step. “Start the camera loop and cover me. I’m going to see her.”

 _“You fucking dumbass,”_  Mayana cursed.  _“Don’t you dare do this. You’ll get yourself killed!”_

Petyr ignored her and followed Arya’s instruction. He had to see Sansa and tell her she wasn’t forgotten, assure her there was a plan. Being hated by her wasn't a thought he could bear. He took the safer route of stairs instead of the elevator and maneuvered through the halls when he reached the lower floor, dodging suspicion and passersby as well as he could.

 _“This is dangerous,”_  Mayana warned.  _“Petyr, would you turn around? You could blow this whole damn thing.”_

“I can’t. I’m already here, there’s no point in stopping.” Petyr picked up a folder on a cart, pretending to read it to blend in. “Which room?”

 _“Seven,”_  said Arya. _“Down the blue hallway. I'll be watching.”_

Petyr followed the signs until he came to the door in question. Down a blue hallway, like Arya said. He rested his hand on the doorknob, heart pounding in his ears, feeling like he could vomit from the nausea then and there.  _“Petyr,”_  said Olyvar,  _“you don’t have to do this.”_  But Petyr knew better. He muted his mic, gathered his excuses, and entered the interrogation room.

The heavy door swung closed with an echo. Sansa lifted her head. She looked sleep-deprived and a bruise swelled on her left temple, but she was still beautiful, still Sansa. It gored him, how much he missed her.

Sansa stood from her chair. Petyr rushed forward. He grabbed her face and pulled her close for a desperate kiss. For a moment she submitted, her mouth moving with his to give him purpose again, but she yanked herself away. Sansa shoved him back and slapped him hard across the face.

Petyr stumbled backwards. He rubbed his cheek where she’d struck him, feeling pain that went deeper than the skin.

“You betrayed me,” she spat.

“Sansa—”

“No.” She held herself close. Her tone was nothing but spiteful. “You’re selfish. You’re a liar, you loved me and left me when the moment was right. You’re just like them.” Sansa’s eyes filled with tears. “Get out. I’ll save myself without you.”

Petyr reached for her. “Sansa, I need you to—”

“To what?” She moved out of his range. “To go along with the plan you kept from me? The one that got Ros killed? Or was that supposed to be Jon and Arya instead?”

“They wouldn’t have died,” said Petyr in a rush. “I only — I only meant to gain Lannister trust, so I could move things along and take them down. Like I promised you.”

Sansa laughed through her tears. “Don’t you _dare_ say you did this for me. Look at me.” She pointed to her filthy bare feet, her bruised face, her broken lip. “Was this worth it to you? Is this what you wanted the whole time?”

“Never,” he confessed. Petyr’s throat went dry.

Sansa’s hands were shaking when she wiped her tears and her body trembled between sobs. Looking at her this way, broken, beaten, made Petyr's mistakes come to a fatal reality. “You do this all the time,” she wept. “You're kind to me and the next minute you pretend like none of it matters. Do you think I’m blind? Out of everyone you’ve ever known, I’ve seen you for what you are, but still you play your games and try to trick people into thinking you don’t care about anything!” Her voice had risen to a shout. _“It’s bullshit!”_

Petyr stood there like stone, feeling all the weight. “Is that what you think?”

“That’s what I know.”

Her voice cracked. Petyr rubbed his chin and turned away so she couldn’t see his face.

“Do you know what Roose Bolton threatened to do to me?”

 _He won’t do anything,_  Petyr wanted to say,  _Roose is smarter than that._  But his mouth didn’t move. He balled his fists.

“He said he’d hurt me more than Ramsay ever did,” Sansa continued. “That he was proud of his son and wouldn’t hesitate to finish what he started.”

Petyr felt nauseous again. The thought of anyone laying their hands on Sansa was abhorrent. Why hadn’t he considered that before? Why had he underestimated his enemies? Petyr said the only words he could think of. “I’m so sorry.”

“You said you would protect me.”

“I will.” Petyr turned and came to her. “Believe me, this was the only way to outwit them. The fastest.”

“How can I believe you?” Sansa held herself tighter, cried harder. “They’re going to hurt me, Petyr. They’re going to undo everything I’ve worked so hard to fix.”

“No they won’t,” Petyr asserted. “Your siblings are helping me gather the evidence of your family’s murder. That’s why we’re here, Sansa. Tomorrow, the Prime Minister will have the Lannisters and Boltons arrested when I’ve brought everything to her. All this will be behind us, and you can come home.”

Sansa shook her head. “No. I can’t.”

Petyr faltered.

“I can’t do this anymore. All these scandals, this betrayal…” Sansa took a few steps toward him and stopped, like she was scared. “I know you promised me justice, but not like this. I don’t want this. I wanted to be happy, you knew that, and you did all of this anyway because it benefitted you more.”

“That’s not—”

“It  _is_  true.” Sansa moved away from the wall and gently touched his arms. He almost backed away. “You never would have done this if it weren’t for that horrible part of you that you can’t let go. I don't love that part of you. I don’t love Littlefinger.” Sansa sniffled. She looked up to him, at him, into his eyes. “You were there for me, Petyr. I know it’s hard. This is all you’ve ever known, but it’s too much. I can’t live like this.”

“What are you saying?”

“If we both get out of this alive, and you insist on keeping things the way they are…” Sansa whimpered. “Then I’m leaving for good.”

Petyr searched her face for a lie. He wished she would recall those words, to say she didn’t mean them any way that she could, but he found her resolve to be stronger than ever. Sansa had reached into his chest and pushed his organs apart to purge the rot in him from the source. It left Petyr speechless. He held her arms tight. Sansa leaned her forehead against his to connect to him. “You can still be a good person.”

“The time for that has come and gone,” he said.

“There’s always time. Littlefinger can go away as quickly as it came. We can live a life outside of this, together.” Sansa reached up and held his face tenderly. “Please, Petyr. Let it go.”

Sansa didn’t know what she was asking of him. Three decades of criminal behavior, drugs and blackmail and prostitution and treason, murder and money and foul politics. She was asking him to uproot all he’d built his life upon to build a better life with _her._  It would take so much, years to reverse the damage he’d done to himself and those around him, to give him something good to live for.

She made it all so very tempting.

 _“Tywin’s leavin’ the briefing room,”_  said Jon in his ear.  _“You should get out of there.”_

Petyr cradled the back of Sansa’s head, lifting his own to press a kiss to her crown. He could feel her clinging to his suit jacket. “Losing you is not an option,” he said weakly. “For you, sweetling, I will consider what you want.”

Sansa’s smile was worth every pain. Petyr pressed his lips to hers, and she accepted his kiss, returning it with a gentleness he knew he didn’t deserve.

Maybe, someday, he could be better for her.

Petyr pulled away. He turned and left Sansa standing broken in the center of the room, reaching for the door handle.

“I believe in you,” she said.

Petyr swallowed the lump in his throat. He fled without reply, the heavy door swinging open and closed. He dipped out to the nearest staircase to ascend to the main floor.

Halfway up the second flight, his legs gave way. Petyr’s back hit the wall and his breath came in shallow huffs, and he buried his face in his hands.  _Pull yourself together,_  Petyr scolded, but that didn’t stop his body from reacting the way his heart couldn’t. Petyr wiped sweat from his forehead and caught his breath. Time was limited. He unmuted his microphone.

“Anyone got eyes on Tywin?” he asked.

Arya was the first to respond.  _“He’s still talking to a group of people. You’ve got time, but be quick.”_

Petyr reached for his phone. He trudged up the stairs to the main floor, but his fingers caught something sharp in his pocket.

He pulled it out.

One of Sansa’s diamond earrings rested in his hand.

 _Oh, you stupid girl._  Petyr clutched the diamond in his fist.  _My sweet, stupid girl._

 _“Where are you?”_  said Arya.  _“Tywin’s coming.”_

Petyr swallowed the fire in his throat. “So am I.”

Even if everyone burned, even if  _he_  burned, it was a price Petyr would willingly pay. Sansa Stark would live. And she would be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M  
> SO  
> SAD  
> okay. like, i know there are plenty of y'all who are dropping out of the story at this point and like, that's fine, sorry you didn't enjoy where i took this, but this is such a huge changing point and i've been working up to this with petyr's character the entire time. it feels good to see the payoff. i'd love to hear what you have in mind on this one, i've been excited about this chapter for aaaages. :( and i guess this is the point where we see BG pete in his own light because he's emotionally developed far and deep enough to realize sansa's importance to him...idk it may seem "out of character" but that's because this version of petyr has developed emotionally where canon petyr has not, so don't hate me lol. (idk why i'm defending myself for my own damn fic i just want y'all to love what i do i suppose, bc if you didn't love it i wouldn't write it anymore ya feel)  
> also like, clearly i've never infiltrated MI5 so forgive a few inaccuracies  
> anyway time to die, see u next week fam  
> (also, just like halsey's "trouble", medicine by daughter [up in the song choices] is a huge song for this fic and inspired this chapter specifically so give that one a listen if you like suffering)


	29. Walk By Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**  
>  [[we will rock you; queen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tJYN-eG1zk)] ◆ [[when it's all over; raign](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQjXNyC0liA)]  
> 

  
**4 APRIL, 2017**

Arya stared blankly at the computer screen. The cameras she’d been watching had microphones built in. She wished she hadn’t heard Littlefinger be human, be who Sansa saw him as, and be demolished entirely by her ultimatum. _You’re too good,_  Arya wanted to say, watching Sansa sit down at her table again. She touched the screen where her sister sat sobbing.  _You don’t have to go through this. Jon and I will get you out of here, I promise._

She was pulled back to the present by Littlefinger’s voice. He sounded distressed, moreso than ever. _“Anyone got eyes on Tywin?”_

Arya turned to the third-floor cameras. “He’s still talking to a group of people. You’ve got time, but be quick.”

 _“How’s the hack going?”_  asked Olyvar.

 _“Good,”_  said Val.  _“Tywin and his people are not as smart as they should be. Sam is very good, too.”_

 _“That’s awfully nice,”_  said Sam.  _“With any luck, they won’t be able to pin our locations before Littlefinger is done.”_

“Where are you?” Arya asked Littlefinger. “Tywin’s coming.”

 _“So am I,”_  he said.

Arya watched Tywin Lannister meet with a group of high-ranking agents for discussion. She was alone in the small security room, which was a nice change. Usually she was the one running around doing everything. She sipped at the apple juice Lothor had gotten her from the break room and returned her watchful eyes to Sansa. Her sister hadn’t moved.

 _“Where is Jon?”_  asked Val.  _“I have not heard him in a long time.”_

 _“I’m ‘ere, love. Everythin’s fine on my end.”_  Arya rolled her eyes at the fondness in Jon’s voice.  _“Arya, you can’t see Littlefinger on your cameras, yeah?”_

“Nope,” said Arya. “It still shows him sitting with that magazine.” Arya looked over to the looped footage of Littlefinger, trying to match his mannerisms to the man she’d seen talking to Sansa moments ago. They were two entirely different people, it seemed. One somewhat decent, one evil.  _Is this what Sansa has to deal with?_

 _“I’m almost to Tywin’s office,”_  said Littlefinger. _“How much time do I have?”_

 _“Ten minutes at most,”_  said Jon.  _“Tywin’s wanderin’ down some hallway with agents. He’s not near you.”_

Arya found Tywin on the screens. “He’s on the main floor,” she noted. “I heard him say something about the attack. I think he’s trying to—”

 _“Arya!”_  Jon shouted suddenly.  _“Get out of there, now!”_

Tywin had taken a left turn, walking down the hallway toward Security Room 4-B.

Towards her.

“Fuck.” Arya had just managed to shut off Sansa’s camera when the door opened. She stayed very still.

“What are you doing here?” asked a deep voice.

Arya turned around. Tywin Lannister glared at her.

“Sir!” Arya rose to her feet and saluted him, even if that wasn’t what she was supposed to do.  _This disguise had better work._  “I — I’m just waiting for Agent Brune, sir. He’s showing me around headquarters. He left to use the loo.”

 _“Keep him occupied,”_  said Littlefinger in her earpiece. Mayana started arguing with him.

Tywin observed her, stepping forward a few inches, just enough to read her fake badge. “An intern,” he stated. “Why would Agent Brune leave an intern alone in a military intelligence facility?”

“I’m a security intern, sir. I specialize in hacking.” Arya swallowed hard.  _He’ll never buy this if I don’t sell it._  “The truth is, Agent Brune didn’t leave me here. I came here on my own, sir. To see if I could help with the attack. I thought there’d be more than cameras here, but there's not.”

Arya kept her head down, not wanting to seem too eager, or worse, to be recognized. Tywin kept staring. It made her skin crawl.

“You are aware that breaching unauthorized areas could lose you your internship at best?” asked Tywin. “Arrested, at worst?”

“I just wanted to help.”  _Give him more, Mercedene._  She lifted her head. “Our national security is at risk. That’s why I’ve spent my life trying to get this job, sir.”

“I’m sure they taught you to obey the law in school.”

“They taught me to obey authority,” said Arya. “No authority told me I couldn’t be here.”

Tywin made a noise that sounded like approval. “You’re braver than half my agents, standing up to me like that. Mrs. Williams, is that your name?”

“Miss. I’m getting married soon.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Their stare was tense. Arya refusws to stand down even if that’s what Littlefinger would have wanted. Tywin’s eyes traveled down her neck, to her glittering Star of David. “Interesting necklace.”

Lothor burst into the room.

“Sir,” Lothor panted, interrupting the staredown by rushing to Arya’s side. “Damn you, Mercedene, I told you to wait in the break room.”

“Sorry, Agent Brune. I’m really sorry.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and looked at Tywin. “Forgive me, sir. I’ll discipline her.”

Tywin did not smile. He waved to the two agents at his side, telling them to stand at ease. “Go on, then. This little attack is nearly snuffed out. I’m sure you will watch over her closely?”

“Yes sir,” said Lothor. “Apologies, sir.”

“Carry on.”

Arya passed Tywin and stepped out the door with Lothor Brune. He kept a firm hand on her shoulder and moved quickly down the hall, into the stairwell where there were no cameras. “We need to get out of here,” said Lothor. “It’s only a matter of minutes before Tywin figures out something’s wrong, if he hasn’t already.”

 _“I’ve got the files,”_  said Littlefinger.  _“On my way.”_

“Mayana,” said Lothor frantically. “Call Mya. Tell her to get the kids and head for Petyr’s. I’m not takin’ a chance with my family.”

_“Got it.”_

“What about Sansa?” Arya barked, yanking herself out of Lothor’s grasp. “We can’t just leave her here!”

“We have to. We can’t let these fuckers think anything’s wrong and give Tywin a reason to hurt her.” Lothor grabbed her arm again. “Now come on, would you? You’re not gettin’ left behind on my watch.”

Arya followed helplessly. Lothor met with Littlefinger briefly to exchange the flashdrive, the key that would end everything, and then they fled, Lothor’s strong hand keeping Arya within his reach. They left the building, and Sansa, behind.

“We got lucky,” Lothor insisted on the drive back. “We might not be so lucky again.”

But Arya didn’t feel lucky at all. Only confused.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Dinner wasn’t the same without Ros or Sansa’s cooking. Mayana had tried to play chef, but she wasn’t nearly as good, and everyone knew it. Looking at Ros’s handwriting on the recipe brought back the memory of her, still too fresh to put aside. They all settled for ordering pizza instead.

Arya ate in the living room, watching cartoons with Lothor’s family. No one smiled except for the children. Tension had peaked ever since little Alyssa had clung to Littlefinger’s legs and begged him to see Sansa. “Uncle Petyr,” she’d pleaded, “where’s Aunt Sansa? You remember her. She has long pretty hair and plays tea party with me.”

“Probably dead like Aunt Ros,” said Myson. Mya had gripped his arm and scolded him.

Arya could hardly focus, but she took comfort in what little piece of friendship she had. She’d finally made the connection that Mya’s kids were Gendry’s niece and nephews. Mya was King Robert’s daughter, which made her Gendry’s half-sister. They had the same black hair, same strong builds. Mya had been elated to meet Arya face-to-face.

“Did Gendry ever tell you about the time he accidentally got half of my dogs pregnant?”

Arya nearly choked on her pizza. “What?”

“I’m a veterinarian,” explained Mya. “You know that, right? Well, I also check in on the pet daycare next door to the hospital. We share the building. Gendry forgot to lock the gates for the male dogs while the females were outside playing, so they escaped. Before long, the play area was filled with fucking dogs and half of them got pregnant. It’s a miracle I didn’t get sued.”

Arya managed a light laugh. “Gendry did that?”

“Yep. And other things, too. He’s not the brightest when it comes to animal care.” Mya chuckled at the memory. “We only connected this past year, so Gendry and I aren’t the best of friends yet, but we do share a love of animals. It’s how we bond. His mum lets him come to the hospital and help out every so often.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“She’s a nice lady,” Mya agreed. “It’s a bit awkward being around him, having to make sure no one knows you’re a dead king’s illegitimate kids, especially when I didn’t know I had a sibling until last summer. But we’ve been getting on. That’s why I was so excited to meet you. He talks about you quite a lot, you know, even when he thought you were dead.”

Arya’s face grew warm. “He’s stupid.”

“Why don’t you give him a call and tell him who you’re with?” said Mya. “I bet he’d get a kick out of it.”

“I tried about an hour ago. He didn’t pick up.”

“Hm. Odd.”

They watched cartoons again.

Another hour went by before her phone rang. “It’s Gendry,” said Arya with a smile. She answered the phone. “Took you long enough. Guess who I’m with?”

Gunshots. Mya heard them too. “Gendry?”

 _“Arya,”_  he panted.  _“Listen. She’s after you.”_

“Who?”

 _“The queen.”_  More shots. Arya leapt from the couch, Mya close behind, and ran to find Jon.

“You have to get out of there!” Arya shouted. “Take whoever you can and go to the hotel Jon and I stayed at. Beric knows where.”

 _“Beric’s dead,”_  said Gendry. Mya rushed downstairs, calling for the others.  _“Everyone’s dead. ‘Cept me, Yoren and Thoros.”_

“Luwin?” asked Arya.

_“Don’t know. We’re gonna try to get to ‘is place. I just wanted to call you in case this—”_

“This is _not_  the last time you’re gonna talk to me,” spat Arya. “Don’t even say that. Don’t even think it.”

Littlefinger came up the stairs and yanked Arya’s mobile from her hands. Arya screamed at him, lunging forward to fight, but Jon held her back before she tackled him. Arya struggled until she heard what Littlefinger was telling Gendry. Giving directions to a rendezvous point, help was on the way. Littlefinger hung up and handed her phone back to her. “Try not to kill me before I save your friends, at least.”

Mayana looked confused. “Pete?”

“Take Olyvar and Lothor and go get them.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Use the van so you can carry everyone,” said Littlefinger. “The boy says there could be as many as six people total.”

“What if they don’t fit?”

“Make them fit.”

Littlefinger didn’t say anything else. He entered his room and closed the door. Arya was frozen with shock.

“You heard what the man wants,” said Lothor. He kissed his wife on the cheek. “We’ll get ‘em, baby, don’t worry.”

Mya nodded. She looked like she was going to cry.

“And you,” said Lothor, turning to Arya. “We’ll get the boy and your friends.”

“But I don’t trust Littlefinger,” said Arya. “How do I know you won’t kill them?”

Lothor wasn’t amused. Arya felt ashamed, accusing him of falling to Littlefinger’s lows. Lothor didn’t seem like the kind of man to kill his own brother-in-law. “Don’t trust him, then. Trust me.”

Perhaps she owed him that much.

Begrudgingly, Arya watched them leave with Mya and Jon at her side. Mya took a deep breath and put on a fake smile for her children, ushering them to bed, assuring them nothing was wrong. If they were smart, they’d know better.

Jon kept his hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Maybe we should go to bed too,” he told her. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m waiting for Gendry,” said Arya, insistent. “How can you just go to sleep after all that? I can't until they’re here and safe.”

“It could be morning by the time they arrive.”

“I don’t care. I’ve stayed up for longer.”

“If you want,” said Jon, knowing he couldn’t talk her out of it. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Okay.”

Arya stared at Littlefinger’s door when her brother left. She wanted to demand a hundred questions from him, ask him where his balls went, if Sansa had whipped him worse than she thought. But double-edged jokes had no place anymore. Lives were on the line, lives of people she cared about. She wondered if Littlefinger cared.

Arya trudged back into her room, sitting by the windowsill to look out at the stars. Robb used to watch them with her, a lifetime ago. He’d knock on her door and come in the middle of the night, and they’d talk about movies or music or the smelly old Rabbi at temple, his life at Oxford, his stress over homework. Sometimes Bran and Rickon would sneak in and join them.  _Robb was such a good person,_  Arya thought, frowning. She’d learned a lot recently about the good in people.

“Hey,” said Jon when he came into the room. His hair was flat and wet from a shower, and a towel was draped over his broad shoulders. “I’ve got a good one.”

“Shoot.” Arya slid off the windowsill.

“I was singin’ in the shower until I got soap in my mouth. Then it was a soap opera.”

Arya laughed. It was good to remember how smiles felt. “That’s rubbish. Negative ten points.”

“Negative ten? That’s a bit harsh.” Jon plopped on his bed, on his back, and sighed. “I miss Val.”

“I know.” Arya fell beside Jon. The siblings lay side-by-side, staring at the ceiling. “Do you think Littlefinger will bring her here?”

Jon shrugged. “I’m not relyin’ on it, honestly. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll find her with or without him.”

Arya rested her hands on her stomach, picking nervously at her shirt. “Did you see Littlefinger talking to Sansa on the cameras today?”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t hear them?”

He looked at her. “No. Could you?”

“Yeah. The cameras all had microphones in them. I could listen to whatever room I wanted.” Arya tried to choose her words, but the blatant truth was too strong to mask. “I think she loves him.”

“Still?” asked Jon in disbelief.

“They talked. It was… weird. He said he’s gonna consider leaving all this for her.”

“Really?” Jon looked as confused as Arya felt. “Does he know you could hear them?”

“Don’t think so.”

“That’s good, I think.”

Arya picked her nails. “Sansa said she believes in him.”

“And they kissed. I saw that bit.”

“Only after she slapped him.”

“Yeah,” chuckled Jon. “Good for her. Should’ve slapped him twice.”

“Should’ve let Roose Bolton pick out his eyes.”

Jon turned to Arya, and she turned to him. “You said Sansa believes in him?”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s gonna consider leavin’ all this for her?”

“He said that, but that doesn’t—”

“I know it doesn’t absolve ‘im of ‘is crimes,” defended Jon. “But if Sansa still cares for ‘im, you can’t kill ‘im yet. I know you want to. But that’s not your place.”

Arya scoffed. “Are you serious? Littlefinger—”

“It’s not. Your. Place. Let Sansa decide what to do with ‘im.”

Arya felt the familiar tinge of anger. She wanted to argue with Jon, but she knew he was right, and it ate at every justice-driven bone in her body. She groaned and pushed herself up off the bed. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

They didn’t. Arya left the room after their conversation, saying goodnight, and went downstairs to wait for the others.

Time passed too slowly. Arya paced around the living room, played games on her phone, texted Gendry to see if he would respond and tried her damnedest not to worry too much. She’d lost too many people to be so afraid, but that didn’t stop the fear from happening. Quite the contrary.

It was near three in the morning when Arya decided that a glass of water would calm her down. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a cup, but a stirring figure in the garden caught her eye. The white blur moved in a repetitive motion, back and forth, back and forth, poking out of the ground. Arya squinted her eyes to see clearer, but it was too dark.

She climbed atop the counters to grab a flashlight from the top of the fridge. Arya slipped her arms in one of Sansa’s cardigans by the door and stepped outside. She clicked on the flashlight and walked across the wet grass, feeling it tickle her ankles with the cold. Spring still hadn’t fully bloomed. It felt like winter to her.

The closer she got to the willow tree, the clearer the white shape became. Littlefinger had taken off his suit jacket. He was working under the tree’s shadow, plunging a shovel into the dirt to dig a hole.  _A grave,_  Arya thought. A big bottle of whiskey sat on the edge, within reach. Littlefinger must have heard her coming, but he didn’t stop digging. He didn’t address Arya at all.

To the left of the grave was Ros’s body, eyes closed. Her hands were folded over her stomach as if she were sleeping.

“What are you doing?” Arya asked redundantly. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Littlefinger didn’t answer. He kept digging more aggressively, waist deep in the grave. He paused to sniffle, wipe his nose on his sleeve and continue. He looked so ragged that Arya thought he might pass out.

“Where did you get her body?”

“Traded it,” said Littlefinger. “Ramsay for Ros. Easy bargain.”

Arya continued to watch him. She could hear him panting, see the sweat on the back of his neck. “How long have you been out here?”

No reply.

“Hey,” said Arya. “I’m talking to you.”

Still nothing. Arya was getting impatient.

“I heard what you said to Sansa, you know.”

Littlefinger finally stopped. He gave a heavy sigh, resting the shovel against the dirt wall to reach in his pocket for a cigarette. _That’s gonna put you in a grave of your own,_  Arya thought, but his life still wasn’t worth saving to her. Littlefinger leaned against the side of the hole and smoked before he answered. “How did you hear? I muted my microphone.”

“The cameras had microphones too. They were easy to turn on.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see what you were really like,” she admitted. “With my sister. If you were good to her.”

“You saw us together for weeks. Was that not proof enough of my devotion?”

“No,” Arya spat. “You sold her out. How is that proof of anything? She’s suffering right now and it’s all your fault.”

Littlefinger drew from his cigarette for too long, so long it had to be painful. Arya stared at him, this mess of a man, hair unkempt and shirt wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes. Not the fashionable businessman she’d come to hate.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he finally said. “No one was.”

“Well, I did.” Arya took a few steps closer to the grave. “I still want to kill you. But Sansa said that she believes in you, so Jon says  _I_  have to.”

Littlefinger scoffed. “You’re a rebellious girl. You don’t let what your brother says hold weight over you.” He blew smoke into the cold air. “It’s best that you forget what you heard.”

“Why? So you can keep on pretending to be someone you’re not?”

He laughed bitterly. “Who do you think I am? Some monster sent from the depths of hell to corrupt your sweet sister?”

“I’m Jewish,” said Arya. “We don’t believe in hell.”

“But you believe I’m a monster.”

Arya hesitated. “I think you’re disgusting and selfish.”

Littlefinger finished his cigarette, flicking the end into the dirt and picking up the shovel again. “The only thing I believe in is chaos,” he told her. “Chaos, and its ability to work in my favor.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” said Arya as Petyr deepened the grave.

Arya heard a car door shut from the driveway, and voices.  _Gendry._ She left Littlefinger and broke into a run, dashing through the house, through the kitchen and the front living room, nearly tripping over Ros’s chair. She threw open the door and rushed out to Mayana and Olyvar, who were helping Luwin out of the back of the van.

She did a head count.  _Hot Pie, Mr. Luwin, Lommy, Gendry_. A pause. _Where are the others?_

“Arya,” said Gendry when he saw her. A big smile betrayed her solemn face, and she ran into his open arms. He was so warm. He smelled of firesmoke and sweat and blood, but he was Gendry, and he was here. That was all that mattered.

Until it wasn’t.

“Where’s everyone else?” Arya asked when she pulled away. “You said you were with Yoren? And Thoros and the others?”

Gendry shook his head. “Yoren and Thoros bought us time to get in the van,” he said. “They didn’t make it.”

Arya observed the weary faces of her friends, all tired, all broken. She accepted the deaths of her loved ones quickly; they were only a handful of losses among many, and there would be time to mourn later. “Come into the house. I’ll wake up my brother.” She pointed to the front door. “We can get you food and find rooms. Littlefinger’s got too many.”

 _“Toda,”_  said a sorrowful Mr. Luwin, clasping Arya’s hands. “ _Toda raba,_  my dear. Thank you.”

Arya led her remaining friends into the manor. She sat them down in the living room and went upstairs to wake her brother, and the siblings worked together to make their new guests comfortable. Jon brought them all blankets while Arya went into the kitchen to pour them some water. She looked out the window to check on Littlefinger. Olyvar and Mayana had found him, and they were arguing. She watched Mayana shove Petyr away from Olyvar when they nearly came to blows. Part of her wished that Olyvar would hit him.

Arya returned to the living room, only because her friends were more important. She would've sat by Gendry, but Mya had taken that spot, one arm wrapped around her brother. Arya handed out cups of water and busied herself lighting a fire in the fireplace.

“What happened?” Jon asked the group. “I thought you all were safe at The Brotherhood.”

“We thought so too,” said Lommy. “The bad men found us anyway.”

“It was awful,” said Hot Pie. “Guns everywhere. Like we was in some action movie, only it was real life.”

Hot Pie had a way with words.

Arya came to her brother’s side. “Gendry, you said it was the queen who was doing this? Like, Myrcella?”

“No. Her mum, Cersei.”

Arya and Jon shared a look of concern.

“She came into the bar,” Gendry continued. “I knew her face. She asked us where you were. I told her I hadn’t seen you in months. She called me a liar, threatened to burn the whole place down if I didn’t tell her, but I still didn’t. I didn’t want anythin’ to happen to you.”

Arya had the crushing urge to hold him.

“Then, she called a bunch of men in suits inside, including this big guy. Massive. Like Sandor, but bigger somehow, and they all started shooting people.”

“Gregor,” said Arya. “Sandor’s older brother.”

“The one who burned his face?”

“Yeah.” Arya folded her arms across her chest. “Guess I’ll have to kill him too. But only after Cersei.”

“Let’s just take it easy for tonight,” said Jon. He looked almost as tired as Littlefinger. “There’ll be time to talk tomorrow, when Littlefinger’s with the Prime Minister. Everyone should get some rest. I’ll find rooms for all of you.”

Jon motioned for the group to follow him. “G’night,” said Gendry, and Arya half-smiled.

Her rage over Cersei fueled fire in her. But there were other fires kindling, too. Arya could see it in Lothor, in Jon, in Mya, in Gendry. In Mayana and Olyvar. Even in Petyr Baelish.

Arya walked back into the kitchen to look out the window again. Ros was buried beneath the tree, her grave filled in, a makeshift cross pushed into the dirt to mark the spot. Olyvar and Mayana held each other close as Petyr placed a rose atop her resting place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit's about to get r e a l  
> no but honestly, after the next chapter, it's the climax of the whole story. and then it's the end. we're so close alkjalsjgdkjga  
> thanks for sticking with me so far, to the few who have made it here. it means more to me than you know.  
> see you next saturday. <3


	30. The War To Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**  
>  [[i found - acoustic; amber run](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DqoVhwMDoK4)] ◆ [[stronger than ever; raleigh ritchie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QoyMvE5g7f8)]  
> 

  
**5 APRIL, 2017**

Tension grew with every tick of the clock. Littlefinger sat across from Prime Minister Targaryen as she looked over the files he’d raided from MI5. Her violet eyes were hard to read. Petyr stayed patient, leaning back in the chair behind her desk with one leg over the other, studying her calm expression. Occasionally her face would give way to anger, infuriated by something she'd read, but those moments were few. She’d become exceptional masking herself, as he had. Daenerys’s white curls were draped over her shoulders, creating an ambiance of power. She bore the genetics of a dying race. The last of her kind, some said. Littlefinger wondered if that would make her more sympathetic to the Stark cause.

“And you found all this on Tywin Lannister’s computer?” asked Daenerys. “At MI5?”

“Mostly. Some sources were buried in private servers. Others came from Walder Frey’s accounts, retrieved by Arya Stark.”

“Arya Stark is dead.”

Littlefinger just smiled.

Daenerys continued to sift through the paperwork until she was finished, and pushed the stack away. “I can’t say I’m surprised by any of this. Tywin Lannister is a viper, but I learned early that if you cut off the head, two more grow in its place.”

“Are you going to bring beheading back to England, Prime Minister? I can’t say I object.”

Dany ignored his comment. “You want me to have them all arrested, then? The Queen Mother, Home Secretary and Roose Bolton?”

“Arrested is a mild word,” said Littlefinger. “But it’ll do. For now.”

“So you want them dead?”

He shrugged. “Another mild word.”

Daenerys leaned back in her high-back chair, looking unimpressed. “I don’t know how the former Prime Minister ran things, Littlefinger, but I am not a butcher. Fair trials and justice are what I promised people.”

“Even Tywin Lannister?” asked Littlefinger. “The man who smeared your campaign, who dragged your name through the dirt by exploiting your father’s crimes, who openly rejoiced when your niece and nephew were slain? Spain still remembers the loss of their princess and her children, Prime Minister. Sentencing Tywin to death or imprisonment would please them greatly.”

“We don’t need to please Spain,” said Dany. “Since the queen married their prince, our relationship with them has improved greatly.”

“All the more reason to have the Lannisters removed from power.” Littlefinger leaned forward. “Tywin and Cersei have been thorns in your side since the moment you decided to campaign. You are young, the youngest in history to take the job, and still not even a year into your service. Let me advise you in this matter.”

Dany raised her brow. “And what would you advise?”

“Allow me to retrieve Sansa Stark from the Thames House and take care of Roose Bolton. He owns a great portion of the police force, and they would undoubtedly interfere with any trial you have planned for Tywin. Cersei is equally as dangerous. She needs to be dealt with as well.”

Daenerys scoffed. “You want me to let you murder Queen Myrcella’s mother? I despise the woman and she has blood on her hands, but that doesn’t—”

“Prime Minister,” Littlefinger interrupted. “Cersei knew that Sansa was being abused by Ramsay Bolton. A teenage girl, not far in age from the queen herself. Can she really be that good of a mother to allow such a thing to happen to a young girl who was almost her daughter-in-law?”

Daenerys paused. She was mulling over his words, Petyr could see it, and he knew he was close. He continued softly.

“Roose Bolton will block and manipulate your every attempt to force justice on Tywin. Cersei will attack you with the press, she will burn your administration to the ground if she must. She is fierce and without consequence.”

“So she thinks.”

“Even so, Ms. Targaryen, she is not a force you want to reckon with. Fortunately, you don’t have to.” Littlefinger straightened his back. “Let me take this weight off your shoulders. I can deliver your enemies to your doorstep, stripped of allies and ready for the justice you wish to implement.”

Daenerys considered him with a watchful eye. She didn’t say a word for some time, glancing between the file and Littlefinger’s confidence. She took a minute to confer with her advisor, an African woman Petyr didn’t know. At last, she addressed him.

“Your devotion to your carefully crafted plan is admirable,” said Dany, “and perhaps an older,  _wiser_  Prime Minister would listen to you. But I did not assume this position to do to my enemies what they have done to others. If I cannot give fair justice, then my promise to the people of the United Kingdom is as good as poison.”

Littlefinger sighed. _Youth._ “You’re making a mistake,” he asserted. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“Neither do they.” She picked up the phone. “I will make the order for their arrest and send these documents to the proper legal authorities. Tywin Lannister and the others will be in custody before—”

“Stop!” Petyr shouted before he could think. Shame fell over him as fast as shock fell over the others. All he could think of was Paris, and how beautiful Sansa had looked with the sunset in her hair.

Daenerys glared at him. “Stop?”

“If they know you’re going to arrest them, and believe me, they will, they’ll hurt Sansa.” Petyr swallowed the lump in his throat. “They’ll do whatever they can with as much time as they have. They’ll know I betrayed them and use her against me.”

Dany slowly lowered the phone, placing it back on its base. She studied him even closer. Littlefinger tried to pick up his cards, hide them away behind the mask, but the mask had cracked and she could see. “It’s true, then? You love her.”

Petyr didn’t reply.

“I thought Myrcella was romanticizing things. Maybe a strange rumor at best.”

Littlefinger managed to regain himself, sitting straight once more.

“Very well. You have 24 hours.”

“Prime Minister, I don't—”

“24 hours.” Daenerys folded her hands atop her desk and stared at him. “But you are only to rescue Sansa Stark. No death.”

Petyr sighed. “As you wish."

“I want your word.”

Littlefinger stood from his chair, hand over his heart. “My word is given,” he lied. “No death.”

“Then you have my consent.” Daenerys stood as well, and the two shook hands. “I look forward to seeing Sansa safe and sound.”

“As do I,” said Littlefinger, a smile on his face. But Petyr did not feel the same joy.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

“She said  _what?_ ” Mayana asked, near to shouting. “Are you kidding me? Does that girl have any idea who she’s dealing with?”

“Clearly not,” said Olyvar. “I’d hoped our own Prime Minister would be smarter.”

Petyr sat at the head of the dining room table, elbow resting on the arm of his chair. Anyone who could save Sansa was present: Olyvar, Mayana, Arya, Jon, Lothor and Mya, even Varys. It was starting to feel like a fighting force, if enough people could be managed. If a plan could be formed. The others began to bicker, voices clashing and making Petyr’s head ache.

It wasn’t until Arya came to Petyr's side that he looked up from the table. She stared at him, less than a yard away. Her expression was hard. “So what’s your plan? I know you’ve got one.”

Petyr grinned. He stood from his chair and looked at them, all these people he knew loved Sansa, who would help him for her sake. “We get her back,” he stated.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” asked Varys.

“Very carefully.” Petyr needed to move. He stepped away from the table and began to pace, hands clasped in front of him.

“What’s so bad about a trial?” said Jon. “It doesn’t matter what happens to the Lannisters, as long as we get Sansa back.”

“Are you kidding?” argued Mya. “We need to do more than just put them behind bars. These people have control over police, lawyers, government officials. They’ll stop at nothing to corrupt a trial. People could get hurt.”

“That’s a long process none of us want to go through.” Olyvar folded his arms over his chest. “Not to mention, if they know they’re about to be arrested, they’ll hurt Sansa in whatever way they can to get at Littlefinger for betraying them.”

Lothor sighed. “Our only option is a direct attack.”

“Another one?” said Jon, baffled. “They’ll expect us. We can’t just go through the front door.”

“Who said anything about a front door?” Mayana shrugged. “We’ll make our own.”

“You don’t have the gear for that. That’ll require everything: grenades, guns, bulletproof vests. A full military operation.”

Mayana’s smile soured. She approached Jon slowly, never breaking eye contact. “You don’t think we got gear?”

Jon paused. “I — well.” His ears turned red. Everyone was looking at him. “I mean, we’re talking Night’s Watch type.”

“Yeah?” said Mayana. “And?”

“You’ve really got that stuff?”

“Oh, honey.” She patted him on the back. “We got the stuff.”

“If we launch an assault on the Thames house, it’ll have to be tonight.” Petyr glanced to the clock: noon. “Daenerys gave me 24 hours.”

“I’m in,” said Mayana and Jon at once. They smiled at each other as others gave their commitment to the cause.

Petyr scratched his chin, thinking over their new plan. Something was missing. This had to be perfect if they were going to succeed. His sigh trembled and his heart raced. Petyr wondered if this was how Sansa felt whenever she was afraid. “This needs to be done in two separate locations," he said. "Two groups.”

“Why?” asked Olyvar.

“Freeing Sansa without killing Roose Bolton is pointless. He’ll make her life miserable as long as he’s able to.” With a resounding sigh, Petyr made his decision. “He needs to die tonight.”

“What’s your plan?”

Petyr looked around the room, to everyone. “I’m going to set up a meeting with Roose and Cersei at the Bolton manor. Mayana and Miss Stark will come with me. Jon, Olyvar and Lothor will go to MI5 to rescue Sansa.”

“Why can’t I go with Jon?” Arya spat.

“Because he is better suited for military-level operations,” said Petyr, “and you’re better at stealth, which is what I need.”

Varys cleared his throat to get Petyr’s attention. “Not to be the bearer of bad news, old friend, but you can’t pull this off with just the six of you. You’ll need help. I cannot offer anyone to you.”

“You’ll get Jon and Lothor access to the building.” Petyr pulled out his phone.

“Who’s gonna help us, then?” Jon looked at Petyr with a soldier’s resolve. “Three of us against MI5 isn’t gonna work.”

“I know someone who can help.” Petyr sent a few text messages and slipped his phone back in his pocket. He walked around the table and offered his hand to Jon. “But first I need your word.”

“Don’t,” warned Arya, but Petyr ignored her. It was Jon he needed most; it was Jon who would pull Sansa from the lion’s den.

Jon hesitantly shook Petyr’s hand. Petyr grinned, let go, and turned for the door.

“Who’s going to help us?” Jon called. “I should at least know that much.”

“A very powerful ally,” said Petyr in response. He climbed the stairs to his room to make the arrangements.

The race against time had begun.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Littlefinger stood waiting on the Westminster Bridge. He’d slept only an hour, ate a bite of a sandwich and cleaned up enough to be presentable. He stood at the edge of the bridge, hands in his pockets, watching the distant bruise of sunset fade into the navy of night. Stars glittered, much like the diamond Sansa had left him. He toyed with it in his pocket. He hadn’t yet put it away.

Littlefinger heard the familiar click of heels. She’d come. He saw her in his peripheral, blonde curls framing a pretty face.

“Isn’t it dangerous to walk around without a disguise, Your Majesty?” Littlefinger asked when he looked at her.

Myrcella only smiled. It was as though the sun never set at all. “It’s alright. It’s just for a minute anyway, and no one’s out here. No one besides the secret service, of course.”

She motioned to a few well-hidden individuals along the bridge’s edge, out of earshot. Spanish men and women. People she could trust.

“Why did you want to meet me here?” Myrcella asked. “It’s awfully… public.”

“I don’t have time to meet anywhere else,” said Littlefinger. “I’m going to meet Roose Bolton at his home in an hour.”

“Roose Bolton? Why?”

“So I can kill him.”

Myrcella paused. “Did he hurt Sansa? Where is she?”

Explaining everything to a Lannister’s daughter would not be easy. Littlefinger sighed. “She is being held at MI5,” he said, “in custody by Tywin’s orders. He and Roose Bolton are trying to pry her inheritance from her.” He cleared his throat. “Your mother is helping them.”

Myrcella’s light was dampened by her frown. She turned her eyes to the clash of blues and purples in the sky, and hugged herself. “I thought they were done with that. I asked them to stop. I told them that Sansa deserved better than all this.”

“You’re too kind,” said Littlefinger bluntly. “You’re like Sansa that way, but it makes you blind to certain situations. Your mother knew what Ramsay was doing to Sansa, and so did your grandfather. It was only a way of gaining the Stark fortune to them.” At Myrcella’s frown, Littlefinger softened his words. “If you don’t believe me, Your Majesty, feel free to ask Sansa yourself once I’ve rescued her.”

“No, I… I believe you,” said Myrcella, though she took no joy in it. “I just don’t want to.”

“I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.” Littlefinger put a hand on her shoulder. The words were empty, but he said them nonetheless. “I wish there was another way.”

“Is that why you called me here?” asked Myrcella, turning to him. “To warn me?”

“And to ask for your assistance. Breaking Sansa out of MI5 will be no easy task, and neither will killing Roose Bolton in his home.”

“Have you talked to Dany?”

Littlefinger nodded. “She prefers to take them to court. While her method is honorable, my justice is much more permanent.” Petyr faced her, so she would see the truth of his words. “I don’t intend harm to fall upon Sansa again.”

“I’m glad of that.” Still, Myrcella hesitated. “What of my mother?”

“Your mother—”

“I know she’s done terrible things,” said the queen. “I’m not asking for you to forgive her or let her go. But don’t kill her. Please.”

Littlefinger stared at her.  _What did I just say about being naïve?_  But he couldn’t blame her, he supposed, this teenaged girl vouching for the only mother she’d ever known. Cersei loved her children. It was the only redemptive trait she had.

“Your Majesty,” Littlefinger began, but he didn’t know what to say. He shook his head and looked out to the river. “There was a time when I’d lie to you and promise to spare her, but there are… other forces that prevent me from keeping such a promise, regardless of my intentions. Cersei’s fate is not up to me.”

“I understand.” Myrcella took a deep breath. “What do you need from me?”

“Men,” said Littlefinger. “And women. Half a dozen of your strongest and most trusted. The more from Spain, the better. Less affiliated with our politics, less likely to betray me.”

“No one would betray you if I ordered them to obey.”

Littlefinger grinned, almost proudly. “Spoken like a true queen.”

Myrcella smiled back. It faded after a time. “I’m not, though. A true queen. I know who my father is, my real father.”

Littlefinger hadn’t expected that. He looked around to the hidden agents, now certain they couldn’t hear her. “You’ve just admitted to the illegitimacy of your crown, Your Majesty.”

“I know. But I told someone I trust, just as you told me you’re going to commit murder. That’s what trust is, isn’t it? An exchange of vulnerabilities, and a vow to protect them.”

Petyr considered that, bringing it into context with his only example. Sansa had given him everything, her light, her body, her heart. What right did he have to ask for her trust when he’d given her pain?

“You’ll have your men,” said Myrcella. “I’ll make a list of my best people and tell them to meet at whatever location you give me.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Petyr lowered his head in a bow, relief letting him breathe easy. “Sansa thanks you as well.”

“I hope she makes it out alright. Take care of her, Littlefinger. She deserves that much.”

Myrcella turned to leave. Petyr watched her go, another girl who worked with the impossibility of kindness like it was a weapon. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

“Myrcella,” he called. Her name was dry in his throat.

The queen turned. “Yes?”

“Call me Petyr.”

Myrcella smiled. It could be mercy, if he deserved as much. “Is that your true name?”

“It is.”

She smiled brighter. “Well, Petyr, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

And she walked away, leaving him alone with the road ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit.  
> my son :) he's learning :) how to be less of an asshole  
> WOW Y'ALL. Let me break down the final five chapters of Bloodguilt for you.  
> Next two chapters are the physical climax.  
> The chapter after that is the emotional climax.  
> Then the resolution chapter, and then the epilogue.  
> I can't believe there's only five chapters left. And it's the five craziest ones. I'm so excited to put this story to bed and tuck it in.  
> Okay, here's the deal. Give me a week off to write the climax chapters. After those two, then I'll take another week off to finish the final three chapters, and then publish _all three_ at the same time. Yep. You read that right. So the update schedule looks like this: **chapter 31 - 04/22/17. chapter 32 - 04/29/17. chapter 33-35 - 05/13/17.** but this may change.  
>  then we're fucking _done._  
>  SEE YOU SOON GUYS, i hope this story has all been worth it for you!! BUCKLE UP THOUGH IT'S ABOUT TO GET _PAINFUL_


	31. Exorcism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * This chapter features a moderately graphic attempted rape scene. Heads up!
> 
>   
> **soundtrack choices:**  
>  [[let's play a game; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePo_CG2j5Cw)] ◆ [[exorcism; clairity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7PL56rS-pQ)]  
> 

  
**5 APRIL, 2017**

Sansa found peace in Sandor Clegane. He was the one thing, aside from Ramsay’s absence, that was different from her previous imprisonment. She had a friend. Someone to talk to. When they weren’t sleeping, Sansa and Sandor spent their time in conversation to distract her from crippling anxiety. His time with Arya — they called her “Beth” to thwart suspicion — was a topic they visited often. Sansa was comforted by his recollections of all the things Arya did while working at the Brotherhood, from breaking beer glasses while training at the bar to walking in on a customer in the loo. And in turn, Sansa told Sandor how “Beth” was doing. How Petyr had brought them all together, how happy she was, even though they’d been separated in the end.

As much as Sansa appreciated Sandor’s company, she didn’t fool herself into thinking she was safe. She had a small bed and daily meals, and no one had come to harm her, but the walls had Ramsay’s eyes. Without medicine, without help, she was at the mercy of his memory, and she felt spiders under her skin.

“I have a question,” said Sansa, rolling over in her bed to face Sandor.

“Ask it.” Sandor, who was much too large for his bed, laid on the floor with his body outstretched. He nearly filled the entire space.

Sansa stuffed her pillow into a more comfortable ball, trying to stay as calm as possible. “Why did you leave the Lannisters?”

“Because they were cunts.”

Sansa chuckled. “Besides that.”

“Why does it matter? I left.”

“But they took you in,” she said. “They gave you a position as a bodyguard to the king. They gave you money, they treated you well.”

Sandor pushed up from the ground to look at her. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re thinkin’ about Littlefinger.”

Sansa was silent. The fear in Petyr's eyes had haunted her since his visit, and she couldn't shake her worry for him.

“Are you still thinking he’s gonna save you, girl? Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Don’t call me girl,” Sansa defended. “And please don’t talk to me like that.”

Sandor shut his mouth. He had a habit of speaking harshly, he always had, but Sansa wasn’t going to let him talk without conviction.

“I asked about the Lannisters because I was wondering if they started to treat you badly. That’s all. And he  _will_  get me out of here, I know he will.”

“I don’t trust him,” said Sandor.

“Then don’t. Trust me.”

Sansa could see the doubt in his eyes. She was certain others would doubt her too. No one wanted to let her choose who to rely on, it seemed. No one believed in Petyr like she did.

The door to their small prison opened. Tywin Lannister entered with grace, accompanied by a group of armed agents. An escort. Sansa tensed and sat upright.

“Miss Stark,” said Tywin, voice low and jarring. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back in a position of authority, just outside her cell. “Have you given thought to your decision?”

He hadn't come to waste time. Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat and held her ground while she still could. “Yes.”

“And?”

“You already know the answer.”

Tywin pushed out a long, heavy sigh. He nodded to one of his men. The agent removed his badge and scanned it, opening Sansa’s cell door. “What are you doing?” shouted Sandor. The stranger grabbed Sansa harshly by the arm. She could not fight. Sandor rushed to his feet and started beating on the glass like a madman. “If you hurt her, I’ll rip your guts out through your neck!”

Tywin ignored his cries. Sansa was shoved forward and forced to walk out of the prison with her escort. She turned back to see Sandor screaming threats and profanity, but she couldn’t smile at him before the door closed. A shame. Sansa wanted her smile to be what he remembered her by, if this was the end.

The elevator opened down the long hall. Tywin motioned for Sansa to enter first. The others followed behind, and the doors slowly closed.

The lift began to ascend. Back to another interrogation room, Sansa assumed, but she didn’t know why. It was different this time. She stood in the middle of a circle of well-dressed men, and felt naked despite her filthy funeral dress.

“Why do you need my signature?” she asked Tywin.

“Pardon?”

“My signature. You could forge it, couldn’t you?”

“You’re seventeen,” he said. “Or, you were. You haven’t signed any legal documents I could get my hands on, making accurate forgery quite difficult.”

“So you decided to torture me instead?”

“Your submission wasn’t my preferred choice,” Tywin continued. “We had hoped to acquire the money without a Stark heir, but Ramsay Bolton was insistent that he could break you. Roose allowed him to act before I was consulted, and by the time I was made aware of what he’d done, it was too late. I was assured that your ‘transformation’ would be a viable second option if our first failed.”

Sansa nearly fainted. I _was just a backup plan._  “Why now, then?” she asked, voice quivering. “Why not just steal the money? Why hurt me?”

“I would prefer not to. You could be a valuable ally, now that Littlefinger has made you useful.” The lift doors opened. Sansa was pushed forward by the armed guards, but Tywin stayed at her side, still speaking. “Stealing one of the most valuable fortunes of the decade is not as easy as you may think. Your father went to great lengths to ensure that it would be hard for us.”

“But why hurt me?” Sansa asked again. She could feel danger getting close. Would it be Roose Bolton who’d take her this time? One of Ramsay’s friends, angered by his death? Or Tywin Lannister himself? Would she have to choose?  _No,_  Sansa thought,  _they never give me a choice._

They stopped outside an interrogation room. One of the agents opened the door. Inside, there was nothing but darkness. Sansa was more afraid of it than anything.

“Ramsay acted on his own accord,” said Tywin sternly. “But the damage was done, and his effect on you is a suitable weapon, as unpleasant as it may be.” He stepped closer to her. “Look at me.”

Sansa did, shaking.

“I don’t have time to play games, Miss Stark. I have given you three days to consider. I gave you food. I let you speak with the Hound. I stopped anyone who wanted to harm you. I have tried to take a generous path, but still you refuse to bend, even though your family is dead and Littlefinger has betrayed you. I am left with only one option.” Tywin pulled paperwork from his suit jacket and offered it to her. “Sign, or there will be pain.”

Sansa stared at the documents. She didn’t even want to touch them; she’d made her decision long ago. Even in the face of this, of torture, of Ramsay all over again, she had to protect the Stark legacy. Her family had died for it. Only she could make sure they hadn’t died in vain.

Sansa straightened her back, bravely. “I’m sorry. No matter what happens, you’ll never get my family’s fortune from me.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but his anger was palpable. “If you die, so be it.”

A hand at her back shoved her forward into the room. The door closed and locked behind her, and Sansa was swallowed in darkness.

She knew she wasn’t alone. Sansa stayed with her back pressed against the door and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. If whoever was in the room couldn’t hear her, they wouldn’t know where she was. _But Ramsay always knew,_  she remembered,  _he always found a way._

The lights turned on. Standing in the middle of the room was Gregor Clegane, a monster in his own right. When he looked at her, it was Ramsay’s smile she saw.

Sansa jumped aside when Gregor reached for her. She stumbled backwards against the opposite wall. “Please,” she begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Gregor sneered. He didn’t say a word, but she could hear Ramsay mocking her inside her head:  _When are you going to learn?_

Sansa leapt out of the way again. Gregor’s fist hit the wall and the concrete cracked under his knuckles. He was strong, but Ramsay was stronger.

_I’m going to get very angry if you don’t behave._

Sansa covered her ears and tried not to hyperventilate. She trembled violently. Ramsay’s voice didn’t get quieter.

_I’m part of you now._

Gregor yanked her arm. Sansa attempted to wrench free, hitting and shoving him, but he was too large. With strength of force, Gregor backhanded Sansa across the face. She tasted blood. Her ears began to ring as she fell to the floor, on her back. She heard Ramsay’s laughter as Gregor forced her legs apart.

_You’re only making it worse, you know._

Sansa wondered if Ramsay was right, as Gregor knelt between her thighs. If she should just give in. It’d saved her life before, maybe it would now.

_Take it. Take me._

Gregor unbuckled his belt. Sansa stared blankly at the ceiling.

_I own you._

What would her life be worth if she was too broken to come back again? What was the point of recovery if it would all be taken away? She may as well have died with Ros.

“No fight?” asked Gregor, gray eyes glaring down at her.

_I like it when you fight. It means I get to hurt you more._

But through all Ramsay’s actions, Sansa had bravely fought for her life. Freedom, family and love. None of that would be taken from her. She would die with her claws out and teeth bared, while there was still some of her left.

Sansa Stark would never be a victim again.

She didn’t move as Gregor waited for an answer. Sansa kept her arms curled tight against her chest, just like Jon had taught her. “Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpered, one last time.

Gregor ignored her. He tore her underwear from her hips and leaned his body over her.

Sansa shoved against his shoulders, arms straight. She twisted to the side to free her legs and planted her feet on Gregor’s hips. Gregor tried to pull back, to gain his ground so he could choke her, but she didn’t give him time. Sansa clutched his wrists, pulled them down, and started kicking him wildly in the face. Her heels struck his chin and Gregor fell back, shouting. She scrambled away as soon as his hold was broken.

Sansa’s back hit the wall. She pulled her underwear up from her ankles, chest heaving with sobs that never broke free.

She searched frantically for a way of escape. Something. Anything. She saw herself in the one-way mirror, tangled hair and all. Was anyone watching from the other side?

_Wait. That’s it._

Gregor stood up. Sansa positioned herself in front of the mirror and faced him, still shaking. The fury in his eyes would have frightened her once, but Ramsay’s influence no longer held her. “I’ll give you a fight,” she declared.

Gregor snarled. He didn’t want to play this game anymore, but Sansa wasn’t finished. He charged. She waited for him to swing at her, and when he did, she ducked.

The mirror’s glass shattered under the force of Gregor’s fist and fell over her like rain.

Gregor screamed and reeled back. Sansa looked up long enough to see shards of glass jutting out from his bloody knuckles and bones, but quickly turned away. She shoved the remaining pieces from the base of the mirror and heaved herself over the edge. Glass scraped and sliced her legs and hands, but she didn’t feel pain. Only the warmth of blood trickling down her legs when her feet met solid ground.

An agent scrambled to pull up his pants in the corner of the room. Sansa clutched a metal flashlight from the desk and struck him over the head, knocking him out cold. She snatched his badge from his shirt and fled. “Break the bars,” she muttered to herself.

The interrogation room’s door opened with a crash, so hard the hinges nearly broke. Sansa was barely down the hall when Gregor, Ramsay, roared in rage.

Sansa bolted for the stairs. She slipped on her own blood and clung to the rail to keep from tumbling. Gregor's shouts echoed down the staircase as he made to follow her. Sansa reached the floor where Sandor was being held when alarms began to blare, high-pitched from every wall. She felt Ramsay’s spiders all over her skin, saw him out of the corner of her eye where there were only shadows. But Sansa continued. There was no other choice.

Sansa heard MI5 agents gathering around the corner and scrambled into an empty office to hide. The carpet would cover her blood trail, at least. She was halfway down the row of desks when the door at the far end of the office opened. Fear jolted through her; she was surrounded. Sansa fell to the floor and crawled into the tiny space under a nearby desk, hugging her legs close to her body and clasping her mouth shut. She could hear them, teams of men and their guns. Searching the area. Talking to each other.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Cameras cut out, no one can see her.”

“Spread out. Check everywhere, then we’re movin’ on.”

Sansa tried not to cry. She clenched her eyes shut and gripped the Star of David around her neck. Her body shook so hard that she feared the desk would shake with her. She would die with a prayer on her lips, she decided, likely as her mother had the day they all burned.  _Hail Mary, full of grace…_

Sansa opened her eyes. A man, an agent, knelt down in front of the desk and stared at her. She clutched her pendant. “Please,” she mouthed, not voicing a word. “Help me.”

The man looked at her bleeding legs, her bruises, the tears on her cheeks. He didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” said another agent. “Nothing’s here. Come on.”

The stranger paused. He held her gaze, and his eyes were sad. _Please,_ Sansa prayed. _Please._

“Nothing here,” he finally said. “Let’s go.”

The men gathered and left.

Time seemed to stop. Sansa was struck with a miracle that hit her harder than Ramsay ever had. She let out a long breath and wept quietly, leaning her head against the cold metal desk. She’d looked Death in the eyes and was granted mercy. “Thank you,” she whispered, holding her Star. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Sansa was pulled back in the moment by the sound of gunfire. She crawled from under the desk, darting out of the room and down the adjacent hallway toward the prison. The agents guarding the cells had been drawn by the fighting, clearing her way. Sansa pushed open the doors and ran to Sandor’s cell.

“Sansa,” growled Sandor when he saw her. She knew the snarl on his face was a smile, no matter how it looked. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” Her shaking hands fumbled with the badge she’d stolen. She swiped it on the reader.

_LORCH, AMORY.  
PERMISSION GRANTED._

When the cell door opened, Sansa leapt into Sandor’s arms. He stood stunned, but only for a moment. Sansa’s kindness was impossible to withstand. He held her tight against him, stronger than anyone. “Let’s get you out of here, little bird.”

Sandor’s promise filled her with hope. She pulled away and looked up at him. “It’s Gregor,” she said. “He triggered the alarms. He’s coming for me, I know it. Tywin said he could kill me if he wanted to.”

“Over my dead body.” Sandor moved past Sansa and grabbed her hand. “Stay behind me.”

Sansa kept hold of Sandor as he moved through the small prison, ignoring others begging for release. There was a time when Sansa would’ve freed all of them out of the naïve goodness in her heart, but she’d learned the hard way not to trust so easily.

“I don’t know where a damn exit is,” growled Sandor.

“We should go toward the guns.” Sansa tugged on his arm. “Whoever’s fighting the agents has to be here for me. I know it.”

“No you don’t.” Sandor squeezed her hand tighter. “This way.” He pulled Sansa down the left corridor, away from the gunfire. Sansa looked back over her shoulder. No one was there.

“Sandor, listen to me,” Sansa tried. “Please, would you? They’re here to help.”

“Don’t know that,” he growled again.

Sansa yanked her hand away. “We can’t just wander aimlessly—”

“I told you I would protect you!”

Sansa felt like she was facing Petyr again. “How can you protect me if you don’t trust me?”

Sandor never got the chance to answer. The door at the end of the hall crashed open. Gregor Clegane stormed across the threshold, blood dripping down his knuckles from the mirror’s glass. Sansa knew the wild rage in his eyes.

“Run,” said Sandor. He let go of her hand. “Go to those bloody gunshots if you want.”

“Sandor—”

“I’ll take care of this.” He gently pushed her behind him. His tone was dark, almost quiet. He never took his eyes off Gregor. “Go to those people you say are helpin’ you. Get your sister, get your brother, get home.”

Sansa had seen Petyr in Sandor before, but now there was only Theon. Another loved one she couldn’t save. She wanted to beg him to come with her, but she wouldn’t be able to go far with Gregor at her heels. Sansa reached out and touched Sandor's arm. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

She didn’t wait for his reply, and ran the opposite way.

Gunshots echoed down the corridor. Sansa ran to the source. Guns meant a fight, and a fight meant two opposing sides. Logically, someone had come to help her, but the closer she got the more she began to doubt.

Sansa came to a halt when the guns ceased fire. All was quiet; even the alarms were cut. She didn’t know who waited around the corner, be they friend or enemy, but Sansa crept forward all the same. She had to know. She had to know if she was truly alone, or if Petyr had kept his promise.

She heard voices. Three different ones, all speaking Spanish. She pressed her back to the wall and waited for the strangers to pass, listening.

_“¿Dónde está la chica?”_

_“_ _No lo sé. Estamos esperando a Jon._ _”_

Sansa knew that word. “Jon,” she said aloud, and pushed away from the wall. “Jon?”

Around the corner came three Spanish soldiers.  _Spain,_  Sansa realized.  _Myrcella._

_Petyr._

A Spanish woman pointed at her. “You are Sansa Stark?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

A rush of footsteps came down the hall, led by Lothor Brune. “Oh, thank God.”

Behind Lothor was Jon. Dressed like a soldier, a man of the Night’s Watch, an assault rifle strapped around his body. She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the crack of emotion in his voice. “Sansa!”

“Jon!”

She ran forward and threw her arms around his neck. Jon held her tight, rifle forgotten. “Jesus, Sansa, you have no idea how happy I am to see you alive.”

“I have some idea.” Sansa smiled and pulled away. She wanted to say more, but she was cut off.

“We need to go,” barked Lothor. “Now.”

Sansa noticed a handgun in a holster on Jon’s hip. Acting on impulse, she snatched it before he could stop her. “I have to do something first.”

“Sansa,” Jon warned, “Olyvar’s outside. We need to go. It’s too dangerous—”

“If I can’t do this, saving me wasn't worth it.” Sansa touched Jon’s hand. “Is there a way out from the other side of the building?”

“Yes,” said Lothor. “Fire exit. Two floors up.”

“Have your men clear me a path and I’ll meet you there.” Sansa clutched the gun, her lifeline, and turned around. She ran down the hall towards Sandor’s voice, towards Gregor’s grunts and taunts. They were farther away than they were before, but it was a distance Sansa would cross, even under the circumstances.

She’d killed Ramsay once. She could kill him, and all he represented, again.

When she came to a junction, Jon ran up beside her, firmly gripping her wrist. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

“Thanks, Jon.” She smiled. Sansa continued onward, her brother at her side, up the stairs to find where Sandor had been taken. She would not leave without him.

Sansa and Jon climbed up to the ground level. Bloodstains littered the floor. “Sandor!” she called. Gregor’s curses came back in reply, and the strikes of fists on flesh. Jon shouted her name, but Sansa was already running. She would not lose anyone else she cared about, even if she had to die to make it so.

Sansa found them in a break room. Sandor was in a fatal chokehold, Gregor’s arm wrapped tight around his neck. Both men were beaten and bloody and raw, but Gregor was the stronger man. Sandor’s face began to redden and purple.

Sansa raised her gun. She saw the smile on Ramsay’s face, on Gregor’s, and heard Petyr’s deep voice in her head:  _steady, my love._

She fired. The bullet shot through Gregor’s skull, and he fell.

Sansa waited until she was certain he was dead before running to Sandor’s side. He heaved and gagged and gasped. Sansa helped him up. “Easy,” she encouraged. “Can you walk?”

He couldn’t speak yet. Sansa didn’t wait for a response. She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and struggled to lift him. Sandor was heavy, muscular and massive, but he pushed himself up with one hand on a table. “You should be gone,” he rasped. “You could die here.”

“I told you I’d come back,” said Sansa. “I meant it.”

“Sansa!” Jon called, standing in the hallway and waving to get her attention. “We need to go!”

Sansa took Sandor by the hand and slipped out of the fire exit. She helped pile him into the back of the van, waited for Jon and the Spanish soldiers to follow, and settled in when the doors closed. Olyvar gripped the wheel and sped off.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

The car ride was a blur. Sansa stayed focused on patching as many of Sandor’s wounds as she could, ignoring her bleeding legs and Jon’s insistence that she wrap them. She was free now, but where was everyone else? Sansa only counted Jon, Lothor and Olyvar. Not even half of her family, not nearly enough.

“Where is Petyr?” Sansa asked frantically. “Arya? Mayana? The others?”

“Killing Roose Bolton,” said Jon. “Don’t worry. They’ll be fine.”

Sansa knew better than to believe that. But she did anyway, because she had to.

Sansa refused to relax until they pulled into the manor driveway. When she saw the porch lights and the arched front door, the familiar gardens and stonework, she allowed herself to breathe.

Sansa climbed out the back of the van and stepped through the manor's front door. It looked the same as it had before her capture, the same wood floor and plush rugs, same chandelier, same wallpaper. But the people were different. Sansa saw the faces of strangers, two children and an old man.  _And Gendry,_  Sansa noticed, surprised. _Arya must be so glad._

“Hi Sansa,” Gendry said. He looked so similar to her memory of him, but more grown-up somehow. “Mr. Luwin’s set up in the living room to treat you all. Says it’s important to stop infection.”

Sandor was rushed in by Olyvar to sit next to the strangers. Sansa didn’t follow. “I’ll be there in a bit,” she decided. “I want to get clean first.”

No one tried to stop her. Sansa left them in the foyer and ascended the stairs, tracing her fingertips along the railing as if it were fragile. Even after everything, this place was still home to her.

Sansa opened the door to hers and Petyr’s bedroom. It smelled like mint, like cigarettes, like him. She knew Petyr was facing Roose Bolton somewhere unknown, but a part of her had still hoped he would be here, turning from the balcony as she entered unannounced. “How did prayer go?” he’d ask. “Did you enjoy spending time with Ros?”

And then he’d kiss her slow, tell her how they’d get their revenge, lay her down on the blankets and fill her with his care and compassion. Sansa touched the footboard and felt the patterns along the edge. How many times had she kicked it on accident? Or the one time she’d playfully crawled away from Petyr’s advances, only to hit her head on the wood. Sansa smiled at the memory. Petyr had laughed at her, then. He’d  _laughed._  That side of him was still there, just hidden away. It was the only thing in the world she was determined to save.

Sansa pulled Robb’s Oxford sweater, a pair of leggings and fuzzy socks from her dresser. She stepped into the bathroom. The mirror brought an uncomfortable reminder of all that had happened, from Gregor all the way back to Ramsay in the bruises and blood on her skin. Her eyes began to sting. She dropped her clean clothes on the counter and peeled off the funeral dress she’d been in for days. She unclasped her bra, pulled down half-torn underwear, and went naked to the fireplace. She threw the dirty garments atop the pile of wood and struck a match. Her clothes went up in flame. She prayed the memories would go with them, the feeling of Gregor’s hands where Ramsay’s had once been. She stayed to watch them burn.

When her clothes had turned to ash, Sansa returned to the bathroom and twisted the nozzle. The water was scalding. She used to take blistering showers whenever Ramsay took from her, curled up on the floor of the tub, lying still as the water seared her skin. She’d thought that enough heat and obsessive scrubbing would cleanse the stain of his hands from her body. She’d thought it would make her feel better.

Sansa lowered the shower’s temperature before stepping inside.

By the time she was done, Sansa’s hands were wrinkled and her wounds agitated, stinging from the soap. But she was clean. Sansa dressed in Robb’s sweater and the rest of her clothes, pulling up her leggings to mid-thigh so the others could tend to her cuts. She was still bleeding. Even parts of her arms and hands were sliced. Sansa hurriedly made her way to the living room, where Olyvar helped her onto the couch and examined her.

“How did this happen?” he asked, carefully dabbing antiseptic on each open gash.

“A mirror,” said Sansa, wincing from the pain. “I climbed through a broken interrogation room mirror. The one-way glass, you know.”

“That’s strong material. I’m surprised you weren’t shredded.”

“Yeah.” Sansa didn’t want to think about it. She looked around for the others. “Where’s Sandor?”

“Hospital,” said Olyvar. “Don’t worry. He’s alright. I suspect that he has a moderate concussion, on top of several broken ribs. He needed tending neither I nor Luwin could provide.”

“Oh.” Sansa tried not to worry. Petyr, Arya and Mayana deserved her focus right now.

Jon came into the living room and offered her a cup of hot tea. Sansa took it gratefully, sipping as Olyvar wrapped her wounds as best he could. Gendry lit a fire for her. When Olyvar was finished, Sansa felt cozy and warm, protected, as if for the first time.

An hour passed. Sandor called from the hospital to tell them he was alright. Sansa appreciated the notification, but it didn’t ease her in the slightest. Olyvar took the time to explain the situation since her capture. Myrcella, Varys, Arya and Mayana, Roose Bolton, the plan. He talked about Petyr’s behavior the past few days — _has it not been weeks?_ — and by the end, Sansa was so exhausted and riddled with fear that she could barely keep her eyes open, yet it was hard to stay still. “Has anyone heard from Petyr and Arya?” Sansa asked as the second hour went by, her third cup of tea nearly gone. She was bundled up in blankets, head resting on Jon’s shoulder. “I need to know if they're alright.”

“You’ll know as soon as I hear anything.” Olyvar tried to stay calm, but Sansa could see that he was worried, too. “You should get some sleep.”

“I agree,” said Jon. He stood and offered Sansa a pillow so she could stretch out on the couch. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll come get you when we hear somethin’.”

“Okay.”

Jon leaned down and kissed her forehead. He and Olyvar left her to sleep, setting another cup of tea and veggies on the table in case she needed sustenance.

Another hour passed. Sansa slept through it, but she couldn’t rest any more than that. She watched the fire in the fireplace burn. Mr. Luwin, the stranger, was reading in Ros’s chair. He looked up when he noticed she was awake. “How do you feel, Miss Stark?”

“Fine,” she lied. She wanted her family. Petyr, Arya, Mayana. Ros.

“It is brave of you to say so.” Mr. Luwin closed his book and smiled at her. Sansa had a feeling that he knew a great deal. “You are tired, though. Perhaps now is not the time.”

“The time for what?” asked Sansa, sitting up.

“For a discussion.” Luwin set his book on the sidetable and removed his reading glasses. “Your brother and sister spoke to me at length about the things you’ve been through. I thought that perhaps I could help you on the journey to recovery. Whenever you’d like to talk.”

“Thank you,” said Sansa doubtfully, “but I don’t think you could understand how I feel. Not completely.”

Luwin nodded. “To some degree, that is true. But I hope you know you can come to me, Miss Stark, if you change your mind. I am no stranger to captivity and loss.”

Sansa met his gaze. Luwin was kind, genuine. Sansa noticed his yarmulke, his age, his weary smile. She knew what he meant. It was a sudden and great relief, to know someone who understood.

She didn’t have time to ask questions. Sansa heard Olyvar’s phone ring from the next room. He came in, unsmiling, and Sansa’s greatest dreads bubbled in her chest. He offered the phone to her. She snatched it desperately.

“Hello?”

Mayana was on the other line, sobbing. _“I’m so sorry.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was telling this to my beta the other day, but one of the best parts of this story for me is the contrast of petyr and sansa's arcs. sansa is constantly being built up, healing and growing and becoming stronger, while petyr, from the beginning, is slowly being torn down.  
> if that doesn't give you insight on what the next chapter's gonna be like, you got a whole new thing comin'.  
> :)


	32. Renegade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**  
>  [[renegade; styx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXhuso4OTG4)] ◆ [[the war; syml](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wy_XQH9Jtuk)]  
> 

  
**5 APRIL, 2017**

City traffic was agonizingly slow. Petyr sat at every red light for ages, and no matter how hard he pressed the gas, he never seemed to go fast enough. Mayana sat in the passenger seat. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the manor, for neither of them knew what to say. Petyr wished he could tolerate the silence. He checked his phone for a text from Olyvar, hoping he could at least know Sansa was safe before he walked into the lion’s den.

No new messages. Nothing.

Thirty minutes down the motorway, Mayana turned to him. “Why did you really give her up? I don’t wanna hear that shit about getting the Boltons and Lannisters to trust you. You can tell everyone else that, but they don’t know you like I do.”

Petyr ground his teeth. “I’ve told you, Mayana. Getting the trust of our enemies was the primary goal.”

“And what was the secondary?”

He sighed. Finding the right words was impossible. Mayana wouldn’t accept lies, and why should he give them to her? Petyr knew he could be driving to his death. If he couldn’t tell Mayana his most unpleasant secret, he couldn’t tell anyone, even though it would be safer not to. “I had to prove that I didn’t love her.”

Mayana stayed quiet and listened.

“I don’t do love. I don’t like people, I _like_ being Littlefinger. Thirty years of success couldn’t come crashing down because of some girl.” Petyr held the wheel tighter. “But in every possible way, I wanted her.  _Every_  way. Physically, mentally, sexually. I wanted her so much that it distracted me. I got careless with Ramsay, I didn’t listen to Ros, I lied to Margaery and made enemies of my allies.” Petyr realized he was speaking from a foreign place — a place of shame. “Giving Sansa away should have killed two birds with one stone. Sedate Tywin enough to exploit him, and prove to myself and everyone that I had no weakness.”

Mayana sat still. She didn’t berate him, not directly. “That makes me want to hit you again.”

“Sansa hit me too.”

Mayana stared at him. Petyr stayed focused on the road to avoid the pity in her eyes. “What if she finds someone better? Someone who can give her what you can’t?”

“Fuck that. I’d give her a kingdom if it would make her happy.”

Mayana snorted and looked out the window. “Still a greedy bastard,” she said. “But for what it’s worth, I hope you two can work it out. If we all get out of this alive.”

“If,” he agreed.

Petyr pulled down the Bolton driveway, a long, winding road through thick forest and meadow. It would have been beautiful if not for the threats written in every blade of grass. Petyr checked his phone again. Still nothing from Olyvar. He was briefly tempted to call and check in, but even a text message could foil that operation. Patience was the only way.

When Roose Bolton’s manor came into view, Petyr found a place to park and unbuckled his seat belt. The air was tense. Mayana didn’t move to get out of the car, and neither did he.

Petyr took a deep breath. “Mayana—”

“Don’t.” She placed her hand on his arm and gently squeezed. “You don’t have to give me the ‘in case this goes badly’ speech. Even though I’m pissed, I got your back. I always do.”

Petyr looked into her determined dark eyes, unable to resist a grin. Her confidence gave him strength. He reached for the door handle. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

Petyr and Mayana exited the Bentley and walked side by side to the Boltons’ front door. He knocked. A butler let them inside, and Littlefinger crossed the threshold.

Roose Bolton was standing in the foyer. He offered his hand in greeting. “Welcome.”

Littlefinger shook hands with his host. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” he said. “Have you met my assistant, Mayana Washington?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the honor. Good to meet you, Ms. Washington.”

“And you, Mr. Bolton.” Mayana greeted him pleasantly. She was immaculate at masking herself. Petyr never told her enough, how proud of her he was.

“I’m surprised you aren’t having us searched,” said Littlefinger as Roose escorted them to the living room. A long leather sofa and two chairs surrounded a coffee table. Cersei Lannister sat in one of them, long hair in a thick braid over her shoulder.

“Searched?” asked Cersei. “Come, now. We all know you’re not fool enough to kill us here.”

“I am glad that you trust me.” Littlefinger smiled. “Is there a restroom? I forgot how long the drive can be.”

Roose paused, looked at Cersei, then nodded. “Yes. Down the west hall. Locke will show you.”

A stranger stepped forward. Petyr recognized him; he was the man driving the car when Theon Greyjoy’s body was dumped at Sansa’s feet. Locke motioned for Littlefinger to walk down the hall, which he did, and pointed to the restroom. “There,” he said. “Take as long as you need.”

Littlefinger waved him off. He entered the restroom, closed the door, and pulled out his phone.

 _We’re in the house,_  he sent to Arya Stark.  _Are you here?_

 _Almost. Buy us time. Where should we come in at?_  

_The back. Less likely to be found._

_You’ll know when we’re ready._

Petyr leaned back against the papered wall and sighed. He was tired of doing this, of being without Sansa, playing games with people who were so far beneath him. It was a strange realization. For the first time in his adult life, Petyr just wanted to go home.

After pretending to use the restroom, he opened the door to return to Mayana. The hall was dimly lit, but a room at the end caught his eye. The door was open. Through it, he could see a bed. Sansa’s bed. Iron bars still sat on the mattress.

Petyr pushed the door further open. The room was small, half-buried in shadows. The dresser was covered in clothes from Sansa’s quick escape, and screwdriver rested on the floor.

Petyr moved carefully into the room. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight.  _Break the bars,_  he could remember Sansa saying. He remembered her screams, too. The day of her nightmare, drawing a knife when he’d tried to help. Petyr reached out and touched the iron bars. Cold, like the air. The haunted hands of Sansa’s past coiled around his throat and choked him. _She deserves to be happy,_  he thought, grimacing at the memory of her fear.  _She was never meant to be caged._

Like fire, Sansa fueled him. Petyr left the room, the monument to her pain, and reentered the hall to finish what he'd started.

Mayana, Roose and Cersei were sitting around the coffee table. Roose was in one chair, Cersei in the other, and Mayana had settled in on the couch by herself. Littlefinger sat beside her.

He scanned the room. Bolton and Lannister men were present. Between Arya, the Spaniards and Mayana, the odds were equal.

“I haven’t heard anything from Tywin,” said Roose. “Do you think the Stark girl gave in?”

“Doubtful,” said Mayana. “She’s stubborn. We tried to get her to claim the money on her birthday, but she wouldn’t go. She doesn’t want anything to do with it 'til you’re dead.”

Cersei grinned, too pleased for someone being denied a fortune. “That doesn’t matter. My father has other tools in his arsenal.”

“Forgive me,” said Littlefinger, “but what could Tywin do that Ramsay hasn’t already done? Sansa has proven herself resilient to torture. Unless he plans on taking limbs…?”

“We have The Mountain,” said Cersei. “Even if she doesn’t bend, she’ll break.”

Petyr felt like retching. Gregor Clegane had a monstrous reputation, but with women, it was worse. He’d been rumored to have killed dozens of girls during the act of assault, and those who survived were never the same. Petyr itched to call Olyvar immediately. Littlefinger skipped a beat, and Mayana took over for him.

“You people sure like your violence.” Mayana pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and handed it to Petyr.  _Thanks._  He took one and retrieved his lighter. Deep inhales of nicotine centered him again.

“I didn’t say you could smoke in my house,” said Roose.

“I didn’t ask permission.” Littlefinger flicked away his ashes.

“Does anyone have an actual number on this girl’s money?” asked Mayana. “I’ve heard things, but I wanna see it in writing. It’s hard to trust anyone’s word these days.”

“I thought you might ask.” Roose nodded to one of his men. The stranger left momentarily and returned with a tall stack of paperwork, which he placed on the table with a  _thud._  “There you are,” said Roose. “The Stark assets, in total.”

Mayana was the first to lean forward, taking a modest chunk off the top and scanning the pages. Littlefinger took some as well. He crossed one leg over the other to read while Cersei poured wine, but the words were blurred, and he couldn’t blink them into focus. “Fuck,” Petyr cursed.

“Here. Use mine.” Roose Bolton pulled his reading glasses from his shirt and handed them to Littlefinger. He put them on, scowling as the text became clear.

The numbers were staggering. The Stark family fortune had accumulated over generations, reaching as far back as the colonial era. No Stark had cashed it in. They’d let it sit, contributing their share over the years while living comfortably modest lives. The list of possessions was impressive: original pieces from famed artists, shares in half a hundred multi-million-dollar companies, property in various parts of Europe, antiques, custom furniture, priceless jewelry and historical artifacts. A fortune, indeed.

“This is what you want?” asked Littlefinger, cocking his brow. “Centuries of wealth?”

“Immense wealth,” said Roose. “I don’t think the girl realizes what she’s sitting on.”

“Won’t be sitting for long, though.” Cersei handed out three glasses of wine to Roose, Mayana and Littlefinger, sipping at her own and smiling. “I wonder if she’ll still be able to speak when Gregor is finished with her.”

Petyr tried not to react.  _Come on, Arya, any moment now._

“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Littlefinger, cradling wine and cigarette in his hands. “Your little torture technique.”

Roose shrugged. “We cut our losses. Cut her throat and move on.”

“We’ve spent far too much time on Sansa Stark,” Cersei agreed. “Would you like to have her body, Littlefinger? To join your other whore?”

Petyr caught the venom in the queen's stare. He threw it back at her with every ounce. “That's alright,” said Mayana to cover him. “One body is enough for—”

Explosions boomed from the west wing. Littlefinger shot up from the couch, Mayana by his side, and ducked when guns began to fire. From the hall charged a group of armed invaders dressed in black, unrecognizable.

The leader pulled off her ski mask. Arya Stark looked directly at Roose, and raised her gun.

Another bomb. Splintered wood and shattered glass flew every which way. Petyr stayed low as Mayana began fake fighting with the Spaniards. They all had their targets; all Littlefinger had to do was play his part. The most important one.

“Your Grace!” he called above the chaos, moving quickly to where Cersei hid behind a bookshelf. Her guards had abandoned her to join the fray. Mayana would make sure they didn’t follow. “Come with me. We need to get you to safety.”

“You didn’t send these people?” she demanded.

“No, I don’t—”

 _Boom._  Smoke drifted in from a distant fire. “We don’t have time,” urged Littlefinger, “follow me!”

Littlefinger snatched her hand. Cersei followed him without resistance down the eastern hallway, searching for an empty room to barricade in. He pointed to the study at the far end. “There,” he said. “Go, Your Grace. I’ll cover you.”

He pulled his gun from his waistband, pointing it the way they came. Cersei ran for the study. Petyr pretended to fire at some of the Spaniards, shooting Lannister personnel instead. He could see Mayana exchanging blows with Locke in the hallway. She bought him time. After making sure they wouldn't be found, Littlefinger followed Cersei into Roose’s study and slammed the door behind him.

The gunshots became quieter. Littlefinger paused to catch his breath, and turned. “Your Grace, I think we should—”

 _Bang._  Petyr fell to the floor as blood burst from his knee. He yelped in pain, rolling on his back and trying to clasp his leg to stop it. Any of it.

When he looked up, Cersei Lannister lowered her own gun.

“I'm almost offended that you thought bringing in the cavalry would stop us.” Cersei swept across the room, all grace and poise and hate, picking up Petyr’s weapon from the floor. “I was going to bury you anyway. Kill you slow, perhaps, if the mood was right. Maybe I’d make Sansa watch. Maybe I’d make her kill you instead.”

Petyr groaned. Putting any weight on his leg brought unbearable pain, and he gripped the arm of a nearby chair to heave himself up. Cersei fired again. Her bullet lodged into his side, and he collapsed hard to the ground.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” asked Cersei. “After all these years?” The click of her heels grew louder as she approached, but Petyr’s vision was too blurred to see her. “The moment you handed Sansa over, you made a lot of enemies. Including Olenna Tyrell. A girl she’d broken laws to protect had been betrayed, and she wanted revenge. Something we have in common.” Cersei pushed her stiletto against Petyr’s chest and laid him flat on his back. “You poisoned my son, Joffrey. The king. I want you to admit it.”

Olenna's betrayal was impossible to ponder while Petyr’s life seeped away. The cockier Cersei was, the better, even if his end was in sight. Petyr laughed. “Killing your vicious boy is one of the only good deeds I’ve done.”

 _Bang._  Cersei’s third bullet ripped through his core, and Petyr cried out. Cersei pressed her foot harder on his chest.

“I wish she could be here,” snarled the queen. “Sansa. Your little whore. I wish she could watch you die, and leave you with all the clever ideas of what I’m going to do to her once you’re dead.” She leaned down to him. “Though I suppose I can do that anyway, can’t I?”

A shadow moved behind Cersei. Petyr watched it briefly before looking her in the eye, a grin on his lips. He knew who had come. “Sansa’s not in your clutches anymore. You played your tricks, but so did I.”

Arya Stark leapt from the darkness onto Cersei’s back, yanking her hair and dragging her off of Petyr. He tried to sit up, but the holes in his body stung him with immense pain and he only got far enough to lean against the closed door.

Petyr lifted his head to the fighting. Arya had ripped out a handful of Cersei’s blonde hair and tackled her to the floor. Smoke began to fill the room.  _Fire,_  he thought,  _somewhere nearby._  He covered his wounds and stayed focused on breathing. In, out. In, out.

Arya climbed on top of Cersei and wrapped her hands around her throat. The gun was forgotten. Arya squeezed tighter and tighter, screaming with a rage long held back. Cersei's struggles turned to twitches and jerks, and her grasping hands fell slowly to the floor.

The gunshots outside had ceased, leaving only the crackle of fire. Petyr didn’t speak. He watched Arya stand, wipe the sweat from her brow, and pick up the loaded weapon from the floor.

She raised the gun and aimed at him.

This wouldn’t be a terrible end, Petyr decided. Cersei Lannister was dead. Roose Bolton was likely dead. He didn’t like leaving things half-finished, but it seemed he didn’t have a choice. He trusted Olyvar and Jon and Lothor to save Sansa. He trusted Mayana to run his operation with pride. He ached for Sansa, for her touch, and loathed the idea of another man making her smile if she ever moved on from him. But Petyr was a smart man. He knew when his battles were lost. Even if Arya didn’t shoot him, he would surely die from blood loss alone, much to everyone’s joy.

Petyr Baelish would not beg. He stayed locked with Arya’s stare, prepared to make his death haunt her, if possible.

Arya glared at him. Smoke surrounded her like an aura, a haze of thickness that she blended into. Petyr’s eyes stung from it, but he stared at her all the same.

Her hands trembled. Arya looked like she was going to cry. Half a minute passed without her pulling the trigger. He wanted to demand what was taking so long, but so much energy had left him, spilling out of his body to join the rest.

Arya let out an angry sob. She shouted, wept, and lowered the gun. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” groaned Petyr.

“Then fucking  _walk._ ” Arya stormed past him, out the door.

Walk. A simple request, but barely manageable. Petyr struggled to push himself up, using the bookshelf beside him for support. Bullets and blood loss crippled him, but somehow, he stood. He limped out the door. He put little weight on his left leg, but being cautious wouldn’t get him out of the manor fast enough. Petyr tried to walk normally. His knee buckled and he collapsed to the floor with a cry.

“Goddammit!” shouted Arya, running back to him. “I thought you said you could walk!”

“It’s a bit difficult,” fired Petyr.

Arya cursed, helping him stand again. She slung his arm over her shoulders. “You’d better not get me killed. I’m not dying for you.”

The walls, the hallways, the living room, everything was engulfed in the orange glow of flame. Of success. Petyr could barely see it, but he could feel the blistering heat. “We gotta go!” Mayana exclaimed over the fire. “The car’s waiting, we have to—”

Mayana saw them staggering toward the front door. She looked at Petyr and froze. “Oh my God.”

“Mayana,” growled Petyr. “Mayana, focus!”

“Car,” she stuttered. “C-Come on.” Mayana held the door open for Arya and Petyr, running out to the van filled with Spanish fighters ready to retreat. Petyr closed his eyes. He couldn’t feel the bullets anymore. Only the cold, the fresh spring breeze on his face. It reminded him of the Fingers, of all things.

Myrcella’s men cleared out of the middle row of seats so Petyr could lay down. Mayana helped him into the van. “Hold tight,” she said frantically. “We’re going to the hospital. Arya, stay with him. Put pressure on all that, okay? Okay.”

Petyr felt dizzy. A pair of hands lifted his head and placed it on something higher, reaching across his body to put a bundle of cloth between his hand and his wounds.

Petyr opened his eyes. Arya Stark frowned down at him. His head was in her lap. “Don’t die,” she ordered. “I said  _I_  wanted to be the one to kill you.”

Petyr weakly laughed.

Mayana sped out onto the road, driving fast. Arya had to hold tight to Petyr to keep him from falling off the seat, but he helped her as best he could, pushing against the center console with his arm to stay where he was. Breathing made him tired. The pain in his body was irrepressible, ripping him apart from the inside out.

“Sansa,” Petyr muttered. “Did she get out?”

“I don’t know,” said Arya. “We haven’t stopped to ask.”

“Ask. I’m dying anyway, a hospital is pointless.” He coughed and tasted blood. “I need to know.”

“Don’t say that shit,” barked Mayana from the driver’s seat. “You can ask how she’s doing yourself when we’re past this. Understand?”

 _Since when do you give me orders?_ he wanted to ask. But strength, even enough to make a joke, had left him.

Petyr fell in and out of consciousness until the van suddenly stopped and parked. Saint Mary’s Hospital. Petyr could hear Ros laughing at him.

Mayana dashed out of the driver’s seat and into the ER for help. Petyr closed his eyes. He was so tired, so cold, just a moment’s rest would do him good. He wasn’t resting for long before Arya smacked his cheek. He jolted awake. “What—”

“Don’t sleep.”

“Hit me again and I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Stop me from trying to keep you alive?” Arya scoffed. “Just shut up and stay awake.”

Petyr, despite everything, found himself admiring Arya for the first time. It was a strange admiration. One of sadness, one of jealousy, but it didn’t stop him from grinning to himself. He closed his eyes. “You really are your mother’s daughter.”

Arya didn’t strike him again.

Petyr’s consciousness was thin by the time Mayana opened the van door. He heard nurses, the wheels of a stretcher, a mix of foreign voices. He was fading quickly. When he opened his eyes, he saw the many stars in the black night sky. On his back, surrounded by hospital staff. Someone pulled the towel from his wounds. Petyr didn’t feel a thing.

“Don’t you dare die on me, you asshole,” he heard from his right. Petyr smiled; Mayana always knew how to show she cared.

Still, someone was missing. “Sansa,” he rasped. “Sansa.”

“Your name is Sansa?” asked a doctor.

“No,” said Mayana. “That’s his girlfriend’s name. His name is—”

“Petyr.” Petyr winced at the white light of the ER. “Petyr Baelish.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Baelish. We’ll take care of you.”

Petyr doubted that greatly. But there was one more thing he needed to do, if nothing else. “Sansa,” he said again. “My pocket.”

Mayana was at his side in an instant. “Your pocket?”

“Give it back to her,” he whispered. “Tell her. Tell her.”

He felt Mayana’s hand in his pocket. The diamond earring belonged to Sansa, and Petyr would make sure it was returned to her. Mayana said something to him. He didn’t hear. He felt a mask on his face, saw light through his closed eyes, and fell unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit i'm so sorry i have to leave you on this cliffhanger while i write the ending ahhh, i feel awful. i wish i could publish more but it's literally not finished yet, i'm going as fast as i can i promise!!  
> the next update is the **final update**. three chapters in one. **may 13th.** i'm so excited to get this baby finished and start on the final edit so i can bind this sucker in a hardback. i'm gonna feel so accomplished when i can hold it in my hands :')  
>  thoughts (and screams) in the comments would be super appreciated!


	33. Demolish the Old One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[million reasons; sapphire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZSDxiy9tAA)] ◆ [[heart like yours; willamette stone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vu3n9iVqPxU)] ◆ [[disarm; the civil wars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zWWqoHZmUd0)] ◆ [[like knives; city and colour](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpF6AQKoBxE)]   
> 

  
**5 APRIL, 2017**

“Sansa, wait! You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Sansa whirled on Olyvar when he tried to stop her, already halfway out the door with his keys in her hand. “Don’t stop me, please.”

“We don’t know if it’s safe,” Jon urged from the stairs. “C’mon, Sansa. You just got back.”

“Mayana said Roose Bolton and Cersei are both dead. Tywin is in the Prime Minister’s custody. Who’s going to hurt me at a hospital, Jon? Sick people? A nurse?” Sansa took the door by the handle. “I’m going.”

She closed the door behind her.

Sansa fumbled with Olyvar’s keys. Her hands were shaking. Petyr’s death could be enough to break her. It was too soon for her to lose anyone else, too cruel of God to take away the man she loved right when he’d started to understand what that meant. Sansa mashed the button to unlock Olyvar’s car. Before she could open the door, Jon ran up to her and touched her arm. “Could you at least wait for us?” he asked. “We go together or not at all.”

Sansa felt like collapsing. “Okay,” she muttered. “Okay.” She held herself. Jon pulled her in for a hug to ease her, but it had no effect.

Olyvar left the house with a duffel bag of clothes for everyone at the hospital. Sansa passed the keys to him and piled into the backseat, leg bouncing as Olyvar drove the three of them to Saint Mary’s on the other end of town. Sansa chewed at her nails so hard that Jon had to tell her to stop. “You could’ve gone there,” she said when Olyvar waited too long on a right turn. She kept her phone close for updates, but she’d only received one from Arya ten minutes ago, and nothing else:  _He’s in surgery. That’s all we know._

Varys was waiting for them at the hospital’s quieter entrance. He’d called ahead and told Olyvar to park around back to avoid suspicion. “Everything needs to stay low,” he said. “There’s quite a bit of chaos in the media. We don’t need to implicate ourselves.” He led Sansa, Jon and Olyvar through the back of the hospital. Sansa was astoundingly tired. So tired of being dragged from tragedy to tragedy, caught in a game that had no end. She was tired of constant survival. A part of her wondered if she should just admit herself and stay overnight in a bed by Petyr’s side.

The others were in a hidden waiting room out of public eye. The moment Sansa saw Arya, she burst into tears, and the sisters ran across the distance to embrace. Mayana was there too. Sansa felt like she’d been crying for ages, but the tears wouldn’t stop as her family surrounded her. She nearly asked where Ros was.

“What happened?” Sansa said in a rush.

“I don’t know,” said Mayana. “He tried to take out Cersei, but she got to him first. He didn’t say what happened. But fuck him. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”

Mayana and Arya both sighed in relief.

“Come on,” said Arya, pointing to two couches by a vending machine. “You can sit down and relax. Varys says we’re safe here.”

Sansa saw blood all over Arya’s shirt. She knew who it’d come from. She wrung her hands so hard they turned red and her breath came in shallow, short spurts. “Is there a doctor I can talk to? I want — I want to ask him about Petyr.”

“Hey,” Jon said calmly, reaching out to touch her shoulders. “Let’s not worry about Littlefinger right now. We can—”

“Don’t tell me not to worry about him.” Sansa pulled away from her brother. She looked around the room at Varys, Mayana, Olyvar, Jon, Arya. They were all here for her, she realized. Not for Petyr. She appreciated their support, but she would not stand questions of “why do you still love him?” and “why does he matter so much?” If they cared about her, they’d know.

“Sansa.” Olyvar stood in front of her, holding her arms. “Breathe, in and out like I showed you. Just breathe.”

Sansa closed her eyes. She remembered the techniques and tried to mimic them as best she could, breathing deeply for a short minute before opening her eyes. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “I can’t lose anyone else, Olyvar. I just can’t.”

Tears fell again, much to Sansa’s shame. Mayana pulled her in for a warm hug. She shushed her and pet her hair the way Petyr would, and it calmed Sansa considerably, if only for a moment.

Sansa was encouraged to eat while they waited for news. She did so reluctantly. It was hard to avoid taking care of herself around so many people who cared. She bundled up in a warm blanket given to her by one of the nurses, ate half of a bowl of cereal and cuddled up with Jon on the couch. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine her father holding her, or her mother, or Robb, or Petyr. It was enough to keep her from bawling. Sansa took little comfort in the presence of family, but little comfort was better than none, and after two hours of no report from a surgeon, Sansa drifted to sleep.

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**6 APRIL, 2017**

It was six in the morning before a doctor knocked on the door. Sansa gasped and shot upright as though she hadn’t been sleeping at all. The surgeon looked tired when Olyver let him in. His scrubs were fresh and clean, but his face wore the stress of his job well. So well, it scared her.

“How is he?” Mayana asked.

“The surgery was successful,” said the doctor. “He’s being transferred to the ICU as we speak.”

Everyone collectively sighed. Sansa knew they were more relieved for her sake than Petyr’s, but that didn’t matter. He was alive. “How bad is it?” she asked. “The surgery, what… what did it involve?”

“The first bullet struck his left knee. Not a direct shot, but enough to do considerable damage. We completely replaced it with a metal alternate.”

“Knee replacement,” Sansa repeated. “What else?”

“His internal organs were very damaged, but with enough time and blood, we were able to repair what we could. He will likely need to be admitted to a rehabilitation facility after he leaves the ICU. He’s not out of the clear for infection, but we were able to remove all the bullet fragments.” The doctor motioned to the door matter-of-factly. “I’ll be honest. When I saw him, I didn’t think he would survive. Now I’m a bit more optimistic.”

 _Thank God,_  thought Sansa. She held her necklace. “Can I see him?”

“Our policy is that patients can only be visited by—”

“Fuck policy,” blurted Mayana. “You let her see him.”

The surgeon blinked. “He won’t be awake for several hours. His body needs to recover from surgery, he’ll be on heavy medication until—”

“Please,” Sansa begged. She stepped forward so the doctor could see her more closely, see the red puffiness in her eyes, how weary she was. Maybe he’d sympathize. “Please let me see him.”

Jon wrapped his arm around Sansa. The doctor eyed them both, battling with his moral code until Varys held up his hand. “I will take the fall for it,” he said. “If anyone comes asking, say that she’s his wife. It wouldn’t take long to forge a document if needed.”

The surgeon paused, sighed, then nodded.

“I’m staying for the night,” said Sansa. “I’m not leaving until he wakes up.”

“Sansa,” Olyvar began, “as your unofficial psychologist, I don’t think this is—”

“You just got back,” Arya interrupted. “He’s not going to die. Can’t you leave him for a day?”

“I’ll be alright,” insisted Sansa. “You should go back to the manor. I can’t leave. If I’m gone and something happens, I just — I can’t—”

“It’s okay.” Jon rubbed her arm to calm her. “Stay ‘ere. We’ll come get you tomorrow.” The others reluctantly agreed. Sansa was grateful that no one tried to talk her out of it. She was exhausted, she wanted rest, but she couldn’t be still until she knew that her family was safe.  _All_  of her family.

After exchanging goodbyes, Sansa was led down the hall by the surgeon, walking toward the ICU. She picked at her nails on the way. She was afraid of what she would find, if the doctor’s optimism was poorly placed or there would be some sudden emergency that would take Petyr away from her. Perhaps both.

The surgeon opened the door to Petyr’s room. Sansa stepped inside and pulled back the curtain. Petyr was lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed, a breathing mask over his face. His left knee was wrapped entirely and a heart monitor beeped with his pulse. Sansa stood frozen, watching, waiting for him to lift his head and smile and call her “sweetling.” To tell her he was going to be alright.

“I’ll get you a cot,” said the doctor. Sansa nodded when he left.

Petyr didn’t move at all. He was lethargic, silent — when was he ever this still? Sansa moved to the side of his bed. The monitor was all she heard, the only signifier that he was still alive. She touched his cheek and felt the warmth of his skin, and while it was reassuring, it wasn’t enough to ease her fear. She wanted to hear his voice. Feel his lips, his hands. She wanted to run away with him and pretend like none of this ever happened, even though the horror was how she’d met him in the first place.

A nurse knocked on the door. “Mrs. Baelish?”

“Come in,” said Sansa.

The woman brought in a fold-up cot, a single blanket and a pillow. “They’re not very comfortable,” she warned, “but they’re better than sleepin’ on the cold floor. Would you like some water?”

“No thank you.”

“Well, just let me know if you need anythin’.” The nurse turned to leave, but stopped abruptly. “Oh! Wait. This is for you.” From her pocket, she pulled Sansa’s missing diamond earring, the one she’d given Petyr, and handed it to her. “Your friend told me to give this to you before she left. She told me to tell you that he loves you.”

Sansa was stunned. She offered her hands and held the earring so tight that it hurt. “Thank you,” she muttered. The woman left, but Sansa kept her eyes fixed on the blood-crusted diamond, on hers and Petyr’s unspoken promise. She’d almost forgotten about it. Sansa smiled, swallowed the lump in her throat, and turned to where Petyr lay still.

“You’re such an idiot,” she told him. Sansa unfastened the earring and pushed it into his hospital gown, to make sure he wouldn’t lose it. She’d tell the nurses to keep an eye out for it whenever they changed him. She refastened the back and smoothed out the wrinkles from his shirt. “I can’t take it back,” she whispered. “You’re not done fighting yet.”

Sansa stayed by Petyr’s side until she nearly fell over from fatigue, ragged and broken, but still standing. The sun had risen by the time she unfolded the cot. She pulled it as close to Petyr’s bedside as she could, planted a kiss to his forehead, and settled down on the uncomfortable mattress to sleep for as long as she was able.

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Sansa woke to the sound of plastic clattering to the floor. She jolted upright and turned around.

Petyr was half out of his hospital bed. He clutched his stomach and groaned.

“Petyr!” Sansa rushed from her cot and gently pushed him back. “You can’t move much, okay? Just lay down, don’t hurt yourself.”

“Sansa,” he breathed, eyes half-closed. The anesthesia made him slow, his speech slurred, but Sansa knew when he said her name. “Sansa. Sansa.”

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m right here.” She pushed the red button on the wall to summon a nurse. Petyr reached to touch her face. Sansa leaned into his hand, keeping it close with her own.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her. She could hear the longing in his voice, and it made her smile. “Have I told you that today?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“Shame on me.” His hand fell from her face to her hair, his other on her waist. “Are you okay? No one's touched you, have they?”

Sansa didn’t know if he remembered the situation he’d left her in, or if the anesthesia was talking for him. Either way, the answer was the same. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” Petyr let her help him settle back into bed. Sansa took his hand and held it tight. “No one touches my girl.”

The nurse came into the room. When she noticed that Petyr was awake, she had Sansa help him drink water and feed him small spoonfuls of yogurt. He regained consciousness slowly, starting with spiteful banter toward the nurse “invading his privacy” and ending with rants about bad politics. He fell asleep again when the next round of painkillers took effect. Sansa stayed beside him, covering him up with a blanket and holding his hand. Every so often, she prayed.

Olyvar and Mayana didn’t come back until noon. Mayana was thrilled to hear that Petyr was doing well. She sat next to Sansa with her arm around her shoulders while Olyvar stood by the window, waiting for Petyr to wake up again. Two hours ticked by before Petyr opened his eyes. Sansa went to him instantly. He seemed confused and disoriented, so she let him adjust to consciousness before saying anything.

Petyr met her eyes. His heart rate spiked on the monitor. “Sansa,” he groaned, trying to sit up. “Sansa, you—”

“Shh,” Sansa cooed, softly pushing on his chest to ease him down. “I’m here, I’m right here.”

“Gregor,” he sputtered. “The Mountain, Tywin. Cersei said that—”

“I got away.” Sansa cupped his cheek. “He tried, but I fought him. I’m okay. We’re all okay.”

Petyr sighed in deep relief. His head fell back to the pillow and he squeezed her hand tightly. “I’m sorry. I underestimated them, Sansa, I—”

“Shh, please. I don’t want to talk about it right now. I just want things to be calm.” Sansa smoothed his hair from his forehead. “We can talk about it when you come home, okay?”

Petyr nodded. He squeezed her hand and kissed it.

“Good afternoon,” said Olyvar, almost coldly. “I can see that you didn’t die.”

“Did you expect me to?” Petyr asked.

“No. I just hope you learned something, is all.” Olyvar moved away from the window to stand by Petyr’s side. “How do you feel?”

“Everything’s bearable when I’m laying still,” said Petyr. “If I move much, it’s horrid.”

“The nurses will bring you painkillers,” Sansa said. “Don’t worry. This is a good hospital. They’ll take care of you.”

Petyr rubbed the back of Sansa’s hand with his thumb. He wouldn’t let her go. “How is the news?”

“A fucking wreck,” Mayana said. “Terrorism, conspiracy theories, all that shit’s goin’ around. The Prime Minister is beyond pissed and Myrcella’s devastated, so we’re trying to stay under the radar right now.”

“Myrcella," said Petyr, pausing for thought. “I’m not upset that Cersei is dead, but Myrcella deserved better. As for Daenerys, she can chase after someone else.” He looked up at Sansa, who smiled at him. “I have what I fought for.”

“That might not be enough to stop Dany from throwing you in prison.” Mayana folded her hands in her lap. “I managed to cheese my way into making her wait until you’ve healed enough to talk. Our meeting with her is on the 28th.”

“Fine,” said Petyr.

“The doctor said you’ll be staying here for three days,” Olyvar stated. “After that, you’ll be sent to a physical rehabilitation facility for roughly ten days.”

“No I won’t,” Petyr protested. “I’m not leaving Sansa.”

“You don’t get to make that decision.”

Sansa, Mayana and Petyr stared at Olyvar and his boldness. “Excuse me?” Petyr challenged.

“You hurt her. You got Ros killed.” Olyvar shoved his hands in his pockets. “As Sansa’s unofficial psychologist, I think she needs time away from you to consider her options of where to go from here. And you need time in solitude to do the same.”

Sansa wanted to argue. The romantic in her couldn’t bear being apart from Petyr, let alone leaving him in a hospital he hated, but those were mostly foolish thoughts. He was still Littlefinger. She’d made a promise to herself that there wasn’t room for him, and if she was with Petyr too much, she might forget that promise.

Petyr sighed. “I’d fire Olyvar right now if I could. But as much as his plan angers me, I understand the need for it.”

Mayana blinked. “You do?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’ll call every day,” Sansa offered. “If you want me to.”

“You know I would.” Petyr squeezed her hand again.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “I know you hate hospitals. I don’t want to make you stay in one.”

Petyr’s eyes softened. “Olyvar has a degree in psychology. If he says you need time, I can’t argue, and even if I could I’m in poor shape to do it. As for the hospital, I’ll survive.” He brushed his thumb along her chin. “But I will look forward to those phone calls, sweetling. And when I’m back home, we’ll talk.”

Sansa nodded. She trusted the change in him, the one she saw in his eyes, and hoped beyond hope that it was real.

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**16 APRIL, 2017**

Arya didn’t feel sixteen. It didn’t feel like a “golden birthday” either, but that’s what Mayana said it was when she’d trudged into the kitchen that morning. Mayana had cheered, put a birthday hat on Arya’s head and pushed her to a plate of eggs machiavellian. Her favorite. “Sansa remembered what you like,” said Mayana. “She made it an hour ago, but I can heat it up for you.”

“An hour ago?” asked Arya. “What time is it?”

“Noon,” said Sandor Clegane, leaning on the counter with a big cup of coffee. He’d healed from his fight with Gregor exceptionally well. His bruises were almost fading, and his concussion bothered him less than it used to. “You sleep like a damn rock.”

“Yeah, well, I need it.” Arya stuck out her tongue at Sandor.

“Let me get you some juice.” Mayana moved to Sandor’s side of the kitchen to reach up into the cabinets. She was tall, near six feet by Arya’s guess, but Sandor was still taller. He grabbed a cup before she could reach it. “Are you kidding? I’m not short.”

“I know. Just used to it.” Sandor handed her the cup. Mayana snatched it from him, but when she turned away, she smirked.

“You’ve been sleeping a lot,” said Mayana, pouring some orange juice and placing it next to Arya’s plate. “That’s okay, though. We all need our rest.”

“Thanks. I’ve been really tired lately.” Arya sat down at the island. “Jon and I stayed up until four this morning playing Mortal Kombat.”

“Yeah,” groaned Sandor. “I heard you. Loud noises and laughter coming from your room. Couldn’t fucking sleep.”

“I bet you’d like loud noises coming out of your room,” said Arya out the side of her mouth, looking from him to Mayana. Sandor smacked the back of Arya’s head. She whirled around to strike him back until the door opened, and Ghost came rushing into the house.

Gendry entered the kitchen, panting, one of Ghost’s toys in his hand. The canine ran up to Arya and wagged his tail. “Hi, boy!” cooed Arya when she pet him. “You’re such a good boy! Yes you are!” Ghost barked cheerily at her praise.

“Happy birthday,” said Gendry. “And nice hat.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah. Here, you want some?” Arya pointed to her plate. Gendry sat beside her and eagerly stole the bacon, knowing she wouldn’t eat it. Arya looked around and noted her siblings’ absence. “Where’s Jon and Sansa?”

“Getting ready,” said Mayana. “Jon’s so nervous. Poor kid. I think he might barf.”

“So it’s really happening today?” Arya perked up, her stomach fluttering with excitement. “You sure?”

“Really sure. The plane lands in…” Mayana checked the clock. “Two hours?”

“Ah! I’m so excited.” Arya clapped her hands and turned to Gendry. “Are you gonna come with us?”

“Didn’t plan on it,” he said. “Seems like a family thing, you know.”

“You are family.” Arya took a long drink of orange juice to cover her smile. “You should come with us.”

Gendry scratched his head. His expression was bashful. “I don’t know. What about your brother?”

“He wouldn’t care,” said Arya. “Sansa would bring her half-dead rat with her if she could.”

“Yeah,” Gendry argued, “but Sansa and Littlefinger are… you know. A thing.”

“Well yeah, but so are w—”

Arya bit her tongue. Gendry stared at her. Her stomach fluttered even more, as if his eyes had something gross and magical about them.

“Oh damn,” Mayana cursed. She left the kitchen in a hurry.

“Will you come with us?” Arya asked, taking Gendry’s hand in hers. His skin was warm. She felt like she was going to be sick when he brushed his thumb on her knuckles, but it was a good kind of sickness, one that gave her the energy to run miles.

Gendry laced his fingers with hers. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

They smiled at each other. Arya pulled her hand away to finish eating, swinging her legs happily off the edge of the stool.

Two long hours later, Arya was dressed and ready to leave, standing with Gendry and Sansa by the front door. Jon was pacing restlessly. His hands were clasped behind his back and he sighed every so often. Arya would’ve laughed if she didn’t pity him so much.

“Do I look alright?” asked Jon. “Be honest.”

Jon was wearing a button-up shirt, a knit cardigan and jeans. His tie wasn’t straight and his bun still looked funny to her, but Arya gave her approval anyway. “You look great,” she offered. “Why are you worrying so much?”

“It’s been so long. I don’t want her to be disappointed.”

“She will love you,” Sansa insisted. “It’s not like you’re making a first impression.”

“You’ll leave an awful impression overall if you’re late.” Olyvar approached the siblings from the living room and handed Jon his keys. “Treat my baby nicely. If you get in a wreck, you’re dead to me.”

“Thank you, Olyvar. I mean it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Olyvar clapped Jon on the shoulder. “We look forward to meeting the missus.”

Arya followed Jon outside to Olyvar’s Lexus. They all climbed in, even Ghost. Jon grew progressively nervous as the drive went on, bouncing his leg at every stoplight and chewing his lip. Arya reached behind the driver’s seat and rubbed his shoulders to calm him down. By the time they arrived at the private section of the airport, Jon had calmed. Or he’d gotten so nervous to the point where he could fake it.

“Christ,” Jon cursed when the Lexus was parked. “I have to get out of the car.”

“Yes you do,” said Sansa. “Can’t greet your wife sitting here by yourself, can you?”

Arya shook Jon’s shoulders. “Come on!” She threw open the door and hopped out of the car, Ghost close behind. Arya took Gendry’s hand when he offered it to her. She ran onto the private tarmac as far as she could, pointing to the planes taking off and laughing when the wind took her breath away. Arya couldn’t have been happier. Here with her family, waiting for the final member to arrive. The one they’d been missing all along.

“There,” said Sansa, pointing to a silver jet that landed on the other side of the airport. “That’s the one.”

“You sure?” asked Jon. Arya looked at him. Tears were welling in his eyes.

“It matches Petyr’s description, so it must be.” Sansa slipped her arm in Jon’s and rested her head on his shoulder. Arya did the same on his other side, making sure he felt surrounded with love.

The private jet pulled around the commercial lanes and over to the secluded tarmac, coming to a stop. Arya stayed back with Gendry and Sansa as Jon ran forward, wind blowing his hair every which way and batting it out of its bun. Arya doubted that he cared much for his looks anymore.

The plane door opened. Stairs extended. Val ran to her husband, and him to her, Ghost yipping all the way.

Arya smiled so wide that her cheeks hurt. She could hear Jon and Val sobbing across the distance. They embraced, kissed over and over, and laughed when Ghost stood on his hind legs to lick Val’s face and nearly knock her over.

Val ran to Arya and Sansa and hugged them both at once. “ _Alhamdulillah,_ ” she kept saying. “ _Alhamdulillah._ You are both so beautiful! Look at you, so healthy and happy. You’re safe, yes? You have food and things?”

“Yes,” chuckled Sansa. “We’re alright. What about you?”

“I’m perfect,” said Val, the personification of peace. “My world is whole again.”

Arya looked over to Gendry. He was clapping for Jon and Val, beaming as wide as she was. But when Arya looked at Sansa, she saw only bittersweet joy.

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The party at the manor celebrated both Val’s homecoming and Arya’s sixteenth birthday. Arya had never seen so many smiles in one place. Everyone greeted Val with warmth, plates of triple fudge cake were passed around and Jon couldn’t seem to stop laughing. Arya opened her presents — _presents!_  Clothes, a skateboard, a better phone, video games and blue hair dye. Arya was so excited that she begged Mayana to help her dye her hair right then. She mixed the dye and treatment after Arya changed her clothes, and after a few hours, her hair was once again its signature electric blue.

Though the guests were many, Petyr’s manor was big enough to house them all. Mya’s whole family, Sandor, Mr. Luwin, Hot Pie and Lommy, Mayana, Olyvar, Gendry, Arya, Sansa, Jon, and Val. The group sat around with wine and cake and pizza — Arya’s dinner of choice — and shared their favorite memories of Arya, from her work at the Brotherhood to her time at the manor, from her homeless troll days all the way back to her golden childhood. Jon and Val told stories of their time in Afghanistan. Everyone listened intently, even Mya’s children. Arya was never one who enjoyed an overkill of socialization, but she felt comfortable surrounded by the group of people who’d come to know her so dearly. Nothing could replace her brothers or her parents, but being around friends made the memory of home feel nearer.

Unlike Arya, Sansa was distracted throughout the party. She didn’t participate much and barely ate the food she’d been served. She kept checking the time. Arya knew what she was waiting for. As always, when nine o’clock came, Sansa’s cell phone rang. She answered it quickly.

“Hi,” said Sansa, her face lighting up. Arya scowled.

“One hour,” Olyvar reminded her. Sansa nodded and left the living room without a goodbye, climbing the stairs to talk to  _him._  Petyr wasn’t even in the house and he’d still found a way to make Arya mad.

“She’s so stupid,” blurted Arya when Sansa left. “Why can’t she just tell him to get off some other way?”

“I doubt that’s what they’re doing,” said Mya. “He can barely walk right now.”

Arya almost said that she hoped he never walked again, but deep down she knew that wasn’t right. Bran would be upset to hear her say something like that. Instead, she pushed Littlefinger as far from her mind as she could and tried to enjoy the night.

The party didn’t last much longer. About an hour later, Mya was corralling the kids to bed and Val was yawning from jet lag. Everyone said their goodnights — everyone except for Mayana and Olyvar, of course, who were tipsy and playing darts in the library. They asked if Arya would join them. “Be there in a bit,” she said. “I wanna get pajamas on.”

They wouldn’t notice her lie. Arya climbed up the stairs to find Sansa instead. There was only one place she would be, and Arya found her there, curled up by the window in Littlefinger’s room. She entered and closed the door behind her.

“You didn’t tell him that, did you?” Sansa asked into the phone, her free hand twirling the end of her hair. Arya jumped up on the bed and stretched out. She had the brief realization that  _nasty_  things had happened where she was laying, and quickly scrambled off.

Sansa laughed at something Petyr said to her. Arya huffed and plopped down on the sofa by the fireplace.  _I bet nasty things have happened here, too._  She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“You should try getting along with people,” said Sansa. “It’s not impossible to make friends if you try.” Moments later, she was laughing again. Arya groaned in annoyance. Her leg began to twitch.

“Did you finish the book I sent you? Is the print big enough?” Another pause and a girlish giggle. “We’ll have to get you some glasses when you’re home. But tell me about the book, I want to hear your opinion.”

 _Does she even know I’m here?_  Arya thought, but if Sansa wasn’t aware of her presence before, she would be now. A cooking timer began to buzz. Sansa got up from her seat by the window and turned it off. “Sorry. That’s the timer.” She sounded upset, but Arya didn't pity her. “I know. You’ll have to share your thoughts with me tomorrow.” She sighed. “Okay. Goodnight, Petyr.” Sansa hung up the phone.

“Finally,” Arya complained. She sat up on the couch, arms folded.

Sansa picked up the plastic timer and stared at it. “I hate this thing.”

“Why?”

“I don't like being told how long I can talk to him.” She set the timer back down on Littlefinger's desk.

“You know why Olyvar does it, though.” Arya stood from the couch, arms still crossed. Defensive. “You need time away from him so you can figure out what you wanna do.”

“I already know what I want to do,” said Sansa. “Cutting off time with him isn’t going to change my mind. But it’s only temporary, so…” Sansa looked to the distance. Her eyes were sad. It made Arya more frustrated than she was before.

“What if nobody wants you to choose him?” she blurted.

Sansa turned to her sister. “Excuse me?”

“He made you unhappy. If you hadn’t escaped Gregor when you did, Jon would’ve been too late and you—”

“Stop,” ordered Sansa. But Arya continued, louder.

“You do this all the time. You did it for Joffrey too, remember? ‘But he’s a prince, he’ll be nice to me soon, I’m supposed to be his queen and have his babies.’”

“Arya—”

“You know how this works, right? How girls who've been hurt get in this cycle of abuse over and over again because it’s all they know and no one helps them. I don’t want that to happen to you, but it’s going to if you stay with that pervert!” Arya jabbed her finger at Sansa’s phone. “It’s a pattern! First Joffrey happened, then Ramsay came along and now—”

 _“Enough!”_  Sansa lunged forward so suddenly that Arya jerked away. Sansa never raised her hand, never gave any notion of violence. But Arya would’ve preferred a slap to the face over her sister’s tears.

“What’s going on in here?” asked Jon when he came into the room. He looked between Sansa and Arya, turning on the youngest. “What did you say to her?”

“Why is it always my fault?” spat Arya. “Talk some sense into her, Jon! She’s gonna go back to that lying arse, and then we’ll have to go through this all over again!”

“Calm down,” urged Jon. He looked exhausted. Arya felt bad for dragging him away from Val, but they had to intervene. “Do we have to do this, here? Today?”

“When can we? Littlefinger comes back in a few days, and by then it could be too late.”

“Sansa said she was gonna give ‘im a chance,” said Jon. “That doesn’t mean she’s gonna jump back into ‘is arms like nothin’ happened.”

“Don’t you hear her on the phone?” barked Arya. “She’s all happy and laughing and stuff! She's making plans for when he gets back! He’s already got his slimy grip on her again and—”

“Look at you.” Sansa’s fists and teeth were held tight. “Both of you, standing there talking about me like I’m not in the room.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sansa, we didn’t—”

“Why can’t I make my own choices?” Sansa rubbed her arms, showing anxiety whether she meant to or not. “Why is it so hard for you to accept what I want just because you don’t want the same?”

“San—”

“I’m not finished yet.” She stepped closer to them, filled with anger. “Ever since Petyr and I reunited, you’ve been trying to talk me out of love. Yes, Petyr’s inappropriate and vocal and he’s done terrible things, but still I chose to see the good in him. Why can’t you?”

“He sold you out,” Arya asserted. “He hurt you. That’s unforgivable.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Sansa held out her arms. “Didn’t it? Am I not here? Roose and Cersei are dead, Tywin’s behind bars, you’re both here with me. Even Val is here! Gendry and your friends, and Sandor, nobody told Petyr to let them all into his home.”

“A few rights don’t correct the wrongs,” said Jon.

“I never said that they did! And I’m not trying to correct them, all I want is to give him a chance!” Sansa was begging, her voice so broken that Arya flinched. “I haven’t given up on him. Whether I stay by his side is  _not_  your decision. I’m not going to change my mind just because loving Petyr doesn’t agree with what you want for me.”

Jon had no response. Arya tried to think of something, but Sansa was speaking again before she could counter her.

“And your comment about the cycle of abuse? Comparing Petyr to Joffrey and Ramsay? You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve been in fights and you’ve struggled to survive, and you’ve suffered, I know, but you’ve never been through the things I went through. Do you think I would give Petyr a second chance if I didn’t truly believe he could change?” Sansa began to cry. “Why don’t you trust me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” defended Arya. “I just—”

“You know what? No. You’ve said enough.” Sansa turned away from them and sat by the window, knees curled up to her chest, eyes cast out to the pattering rain on the window. “If neither of you will let me make my own choices, after everything that’s happened to me, then you don’t care as much as you say you do.”

Arya felt completely defeated. Like she’d fought Sansa in one of Jaqen’s cages, and lost. Jon tapped her shoulder. “C’mon. We should go to bed.” He turned and headed for the door. Arya wanted to follow him, but her feet stayed rooted to the spot. She had more to say.

“I could’ve killed Petyr, you know.” Arya spoke with authority; she had the comeback now. “I had the gun pointed right at his head. I wanted to kill him. I would’ve lied and said it was Cersei.”

Sansa turned. Her eyes were wounded, horrified.

“Do you know why I didn’t?” Arya snapped. “Because of  _you._  I looked at his stupid face and I knew I couldn’t lie to you forever, because I know how you feel about him.” She pointed to the center of her chest. “ _I_  saved him. I dragged his bloody arse up off the ground when he couldn’t walk. I helped Mayana shove him into that van and I kept his bleeding down on the ride to the hospital. And I did that for  _you!_ ” Sansa became a blur and Arya’s voice broke. “You and Jon were the only things that kept me going after the crash! Now I’m here, and I let your freak boyfriend live so you wouldn’t be hurt. So don’t tell me I don’t care. Not ever.”

Arya stormed out without another word.

She slammed the door to her room and threw herself facedown on the bed, screaming into a pillow. She hated Petyr Baelish, hated all he represented and hated that Sansa loved him so much. She hated that she didn’t have her family with her. Mum would’ve talked Sansa out of this, and Arya wanted her father’s hugs. That was always how it worked when they fought; Mum would go for Sansa, and Father for her. But that wasn’t the way of the world anymore. Wishing for things wouldn’t make them happen.

Someone knocked on her door. “Go away, Jon,” she groaned, but the door opened anyway. Arya pushed up from the bed and rounded on him. “I told you to—”

Gendry stood in the doorway with two cups of tea. “I, uh. I heard shoutin’, so I thought you’d want to talk.”

Arya was still angry, but Gendry’s presence took off a considerable edge. She accepted the drink and let him sit next to her while she ranted about Sansa and Petyr and her own helplessness. When she was done, they laid back on her bed and played “I Spy” until they fell asleep, side by side.

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**17 APRIL, 2017**

Arya woke in an empty bed, facedown and drooling. “Ew,” she said, wiping her mouth. _I must’ve been tired._ She sat up. Gendry had left, but he’d put a blanket over her before doing so. She smiled to herself before kicking it off.

The fight with Sansa was fresh on Arya’s mind when she stepped into a morning shower. She washed her face and scrubbed her skin, being careful with her freshly-dyed hair, ignoring how the color bled into the base of the tub. She would clean it later. She didn’t have the energy just then.

Arya dressed herself and dried her hair. She sat on her bed and surrendered to memory, the joy of finding Jon alive, the warmth of hugging Sansa again after being apart for so long. Those were good feelings, weren’t they? Why did they feel so distant?

Arya pulled her old journal from her backpack. The one she’d kept as a homeless girl. It’d been months since she’d written an entry, since Hanukkah, since Varys had taken them in. She stared blankly at the colorless cover before flipping through her entries. Each one had the number of days since her father’s death listed in the upper corner, followed by a short statement of the day’s events, and every entry had the same two words: _still alive._ Arya didn’t know why she’d stopped writing. Was it because she’d been promised safety? Found family? Found something more? She traced her fingers over her written words, trying to figure how the fire in her had changed.

A knock came at the door. “Come in,” she said, not bothering to see who was there.

The person who knocked entered and closed the door. Arya lifted her head. Sansa was holding a tray of breakfast, two plates of pancakes and cups of milk. Neither sister said anything. Sansa moved to Arya’s bed and sat next to her legs, placing the tray down beside her. “I brought breakfast,” she said shyly. “I know you like pancakes.”

Arya felt like the worst sister in the world. She didn’t apologize, though. Not yet. “Thanks.”

Sansa handed her a plate and a glass of milk. The sisters ate together in silence, both locked away in their own minds, reflecting on everything that had happened. Halfway through the meal, Arya set down her fork. “Sansa?”

“No,” said her sister. “Can I go first?”

“Okay.” Arya put her plate aside to listen.

“I know you’re worried about me. And I appreciate that, I do.” Sansa bit her lip as she worked out her words. “You’re trying to help. You care. I’m sorry that I said you don’t, I was just angry.”

“I’m sorry I brought up Ramsay,” said Arya in return. “I should never throw him in your face like that.”

“It’s okay.” Arya knew it wasn’t, but Sansa had forgiven her. “I know you mean well. But I love Petyr. What he did to me was painful, so painful that I can’t even bring it to words, but… I’m not angry. I think that’s because I know it came from a part of him that had never been challenged before, never had a pressure point.”

Arya wanted to tell Sansa that his “different side” was no excuse, but she could tell that Sansa wasn’t finished yet.

“I’m not saying that I’m running back into his arms,” said Sansa. “I never said that. And he knows that, I think. I just want to give him another chance. When he gets home, I’m going to talk to him about what happened and make a choice then. I don’t want to do this fighting anymore.” There were tears in Sansa’s eyes. “I want going to the store and petting Ghost to be the highlights of my day. I want to go to sleep and not worry about nightmares, about who’s going to die or what I’m gonna see on the news. I want to be happy, Arya. I want it so bad that I feel broken without it.” Sansa reached for Arya’s hand and squeezed it, sniffling. She paused to collect herself before she continued. “If Petyr wants to keep being Littlefinger, then I’ll leave with you and Jon for Scotland. But if he wants to put this all behind him, then he becomes a part of our family. You don’t have to stay by his side if you don’t want to, but I’m begging you, please,” she cried. “ _Please_  stay by mine.”

An easier request could not have been made. Hot tears spilled down Arya’s cheeks as she clutched Sansa’s hand. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Sansa smiled, and sobbed. Arya crawled forward and embraced her sister tightly. They wept and held each other, connecting as if for the first time on a basis of unconditional trust. Arya could put her faith in Sansa’s judgment; she owed her that much.

Arya’s eyes shot open. She may have stopped writing in her journal, but that didn’t mean she’d lost the hard will that had filled it with words. The fire in her had changed. With its light, she knew the way forward at last.

Arya leapt up from the bed. She pulled an object from her backpack and grabbed Sansa’s hand. “Come on.”

“Why?” asked Sansa, following her. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Arya pulled Sansa downstairs to find a hammer and nail. She walked into Petyr’s office and rummaged through drawers, much to Sansa’s protest, but before long she found what she needed. All that was left was Jon. They found their brother playing with Lothor’s daughter and Val in the back gardens, but Arya didn’t stop to ask him to join them. She didn’t say anything. She let go of Sansa’s hand to grab Jon’s and drag him away. He stuttered words of confusion, offering apologies to his wife, but he didn’t fight as Arya led her siblings through the house, the memories, to the manor’s front door.

Arya unwrapped the little object from a piece of cloth. “This was Mr. Luwin’s _mezuzah_ that he gave me,” she explained, “before we left his house during Hanukkah. He gave it to me so I would always have a place to call home.” She looked around the manor’s interior, the walls, the floors, the luxury, but none of it really mattered. With Jon and Sansa, there could be three sleeping bags under a bridge and it would still be home to her. “We should hang it here.”

“We might not be here for long,” said Jon.

“I know. But for now, it’s where we’re at. And home is where the three of us are. Together.” Arya felt their father’s spirit making her strong. “Can we say the words?”

Sansa wiped her tears. “I think that’s a perfect idea.”

Together, the three Starks recited the Hebrew blessing like their father had taught them. When they were done, Arya stood on the tips of her toes and hung the _mezuzah_ on the right side of the front doorway. Jon wrapped his arms around his sisters as they admired the symbol of home, and together, holding each other close, they walked back inside.

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**18 APRIL, 2017**

“You got a light?”

Petyr looked up from his reading. One could barely call it reading if they knew he could hardly see the words, but Sansa had sent him a book — _Wuthering Heights,_  to be exact — and wanted his thoughts. He’d promised her he’d try. But God, had his vision slipped.

“What do you want a light for?” asked Petyr. Grisel, an old woman in the rehab center for a hip replacement, sat beside him on the bench. Petyr was outside in the garden after curfew, but he’d taught the nurses early on that he would have his smoke before bed. “You’re not having any more of my menthols. Buy your own.”

“With what money?” Grisel held out her wrinkled hand. “Pass one over, boy.”

Petyr sighed. He closed Sansa’s book, dug into his pocket and retrieved his lighter and two cigarettes. He passed one to Grisel and lit it for her before lighting his own. The two patients breathed in and exhaled smoke that lingered in the night air.

“You’re getting out tomorrow,” said Grisel.

“I am.”

“I’m gonna miss having someone intelligent to talk to.”

Petyr grinned. He liked a good compliment. “You flatter me.”

“You have interesting stories.” Grisel coughed up smoke. “What was the one about Spain again? With the married politician your friends slept with.”

“Olyvar and Mayana,” said Petyr. “They fucked a senator. Would have caused a political crisis if the wrong people found out.”

Grisel cackled. “That’s one I’ll remember till the day I die,” she said. “Won’t be too long from now, I imagine.”

Petyr scoffed. “You’re such a morbid woman. Talk about something happier.”

“Like what? Not all of us have a perky-titted ginger waiting for us when we get out of here.”

“No, I guess not.” Petyr found himself thinking of Sansa’s breasts, not for the first time since his admittance to the facility. “I’d let them take my legs if I could touch her right now.”

Grisel leaned in. “What would you do first?”

Petyr saw the twinkle in her eye, reflecting his own. He faced her with a perverse grin. “I’d start with her collarbones. Sansa has beautiful collarbones. I’d kiss them slow, make her moan a little bit, and work my way down to her—”

“Hey!” shouted another elderly patient. “Shut yer mouths! Not everyone wants to hear that shite!”

“Piss off,” Grisel called back. “Let the boy love sex while he’s still young.”

Petyr enjoyed Grisel’s vulgarity, as well her odd maternal side. She was always calling him “boy” and “kid” and “young lad.” He was 43, his life half over, but Grisel never seemed to care. She was nearing 80. To her, he was a fountain of youth.

“I like the way you think, Grisel.” Petyr blew smoke from his lips. “I will cherish your memory when I’m gone from this place, and never see you again.”

Grisel lifted her cigarette. “I’d drink to that.”

The door opened behind them. Petyr was content to smoke and ignore everyone until he heard the voice of the newcomer. “I believe hell is freezing before my very eyes,” said Varys. “Petyr Baelish, making friends.”

Petyr let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Do you hear that, Grisel? There’s a spider in the garden.”

“A spider?” Grisel didn’t realize he was talking about Varys until the bald man stood before them. “Oh! A friend of yours. Does he have stories too?”

“Yes, but they’re not as good as mine.” Petyr blew smoke in Varys’s direction. “He doesn’t have a cock.”

“No cock?” Grisel eyed Varys. “Where did it go? Have you lost it?”

Petyr didn’t elaborate. He was low, but not so low as to out men like Varys. Not in public, anyway. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t I visit my oldest friend?” Varys asked, faking innocence. “I even brought you a present.”

“Unless it’s Sansa so I can kiss her or Olyvar so I can hit him, I’m not interested.” Petyr leaned back on the bench. “Goodnight, Varys.”

“This particular present comes from a mutual ally. A certain woman who lives in Paris, whom you are very closely acquainted with.”

Petyr furrowed his brow.  _Margaery._  He glared up at Varys, reading him for a lie before resigning. “Make it quick,” he said. “I have a phone call to make at nine.”

“That’s more than enough time.”

Petyr reached for his cane. Twisting his body hurt more than he liked to admit, but he was no stranger to pain. He positioned himself on the edge of the bench and prepared to stand.

“Should I call for a nurse?” asked Varys.

“No. I’ve got it.” Petyr didn’t let anyone help him, not even the staff who were paid to do so. He planted his cane on the ground and slowly pushed himself to a standing position. “Finish this,” he told Grisel, handing her his half-finished cigarette. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she replied cheerily. “G’night, lad.”

Petyr was slow-moving. It was a struggle to walk more than fifty steps without his new knee bothering him or his wounds making him sore. Varys walked by his side. He didn’t mock Petyr for his speed or his struggles; he merely stayed quiet until they reached Petyr’s room. Petyr flipped on the lights when he entered. He went to the edge of his bed, set the cane aside, and lowered himself down on the mattress.

“Ah,” groaned Petyr when he was sitting again. He carefully laid back on his pillow and straightened his left leg, trying to ignore how nervous and nauseous being in a hospital bed made him feel. Old memories.

Varys closed the door to Petyr’s room. “Seems like a cozy place,” he said, motioning to the colorless walls and single painting of a beach in France. “It’s a rich facility, so I’ve heard.”

“Yes,” said Petyr sarcastically. “It’s wonderful. It’ll be a shame to return to my prettier, much more comfortable home.”

“It can’t be all that bad. Is the medication working, at least?”

“For the pain, yes. The doctors also diagnosed me with insomnia and insist I take sleeping pills every night.” Petyr scoffed. “I haven’t slept this much since I was a boy.”

Varys didn’t respond to that. He kept his hands behind his back and moved to the window, looking out to the gardens where they’d just been. Grisel waved at them. He waved back. “I spoke with Margaery,” Varys said.

“And?”

From his coat, Varys pulled a piece of paper and crossed the room to hand it to Petyr. “A plane ticket for you,” he said. “To Marseilles.”

Petyr took the ticket and read the date. Scheduled two weeks from today, single passenger. One-way.

“There’s a house there,” said Varys. “Margaery is willing to sell it to you. A pretty little villa, on the beach near town. The sea breeze is lovely. The townsfolk don’t ask questions, either. You should be relatively at peace.”

Petyr glared up at Varys, insulted. “Who do you take me for?”

“A smart man.”

“Clearly not.” He took the ticket and tore it in half. “Margaery’s grandmother nearly got me killed. Why would she care about where I retire,  _if_  I retire? Does she think I would leave Sansa so easily?”

“Margaery and I purchased the ticket and made all the arrangements on your behalf,” said Varys. “Out of mutual respect for—”

“Fuck Marseilles.” Petyr threw the remnants of the plane ticket in the rubbish bin by his bed. “You can’t cart me off like a cow.”

Varys’s calm patience agitated Petyr even more. “Now you’re just being stubborn.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Petyr insisted. “Tell me, Varys. Did you know that Olenna was going to betray me?”

Varys raised his brow. “Yes. In fact, it was my idea. You betrayed Sansa Stark and broke your own contract that you made the rest of us sign. Why should any of us have been loyal to you?”

“Be honest,” spat Petyr. “You were never loyal. You could have gotten me killed.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. When have a few bullets ever stopped Littlefinger?”

Petyr shook his head. “It won’t be bullets that stop me this time. This could ruin me.” He gestured vaguely. “All of me.”

Varys pulled up a chair and sat by Petyr’s bedside, folding his hands in his lap. “For what it’s worth, every game comes to an end. There’s no shame in bowing out.”

“Not in Marseilles,” said Petyr. He cleared his throat. “Has Sansa talked to you?”

“Not about you, no. But Arya and Jon have expressed… concern.”

Petyr laughed bitterly.

“They are worried for their sister’s happiness.”

“And you’re here to convince me to leave,” said Petyr. “How convenient for you. Let me deal with Cersei, Tywin and Roose Bolton, and dethrone me afterward. All your enemies in one fell swoop.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I think quite highly of you. Who else would I enjoy pestering?”

“Words,” Petyr replied. “You’re good with them. But that doesn’t mean what I said isn’t the truth. You and the Starks want me gone. I’ve no intention of leaving.”

“That’s your decision,” said Varys. “But if you’re going to talk about truth, perhaps I can educate you on what the real truth is.” Varys straightened his back, expression stern, like he was scolding Petyr for bad behavior. “That girl loves you. As a concerned party, I think it’s best that you keep her heart in mind before you make any permanent plans.”

Petyr scowled. He didn’t need life advice from someone who’d condemned him to death. “Since when are you so keen on protecting her?” asked Petyr. “You don’t have a say in what she wants.”

“Neither do you.”

“Mr. Baelish?” came a call at the door. A nurse.

“Come in,” Petyr said. He checked his watch: 8:57. The nurse handed him a cordless phone, asked if he needed anything, and left when he declined her.

“What is the phone for?” asked Varys.

“Do yourself a favor and get the fuck out of my room,” Petyr spat. “I’m going to talk to my girl. Make sure you’re gone by the time I dial her number, or I’ll have security escort you out.”

Varys pushed out a long sigh. He left without another word.

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**19 APRIL, 2017**

Petyr’s release day had finally come. He’d waited long enough to be freed from this godforsaken place, from uncomfortable feelings of stress and fear. Memories of waking up to Lysa beside him. Petyr washed the thoughts away with a chair-assisted shower and dressed himself despite the pain. He refused to let the nurses help him. Being physically helpless was humiliating enough on its own.

It was difficult to stay bitter when he was only hours away from seeing Sansa. She was all Petyr could think about. Since the day they met, he’d never been separated from her for so long, and not even rehabilitation could purge his addiction to her.

Grisel was waiting for him at breakfast. Petyr hobbled his way into the cafeteria, already hurting from getting dressed but too proud to say so. He slowly sat down in a chair across from the old woman and winced, not moving until he felt good enough to do so.

“You alright?” Grisel asked. “You look like you’re having a pretty hard time.”

“I’m fine,” said Petyr. He faked a smile to a nurse who was eyeing him with concern. “Don’t draw attention to it.”

“You shouldn’t leave today if you can barely stand and sit.”

Petyr glared at Grisel. She dropped the subject entirely. An assistant served him a plate of french toast — again he heard Ros’s laughter — and a glass of milk. He thanked her before she left them.

Petyr and Grisel ate and chatted about different things, from politics to the weather to how they’d slept that night. Staff took their plates away when they were finished eating. He appreciated Grisel’s company, but the conversation was hardly fulfilling. The thought of Sansa left him distracted.

“So,” said Grisel. “You ready to see this girl of yours?”

“Beyond ready,” grumbled Petyr. “Ready to leave this filthy place.”

“It could be worse. Could be a nursing home.”

The thought made him shudder. “I’d rather Sansa smother me with a pillow than wind up in one of those.”

Grisel chuckled. “You’re still young. When is she gonna be here?”

“Noon.” Petyr anxiously checked his watch: 11:31. He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, wishing he’d had the energy to stand and shave. “I should start getting ready.”

“So this is goodbye, then?”

Petyr blinked. Grisel was smiling, as if she’d actually miss him when he was gone. “I suppose it is.”

“Can I ask you something before you go?” Grisel leaned forward over the table. “Real quick.”

“Go on.”

“If you don’t want to die in some nursing home, where do you wanna go?” Grisel shrugged. “I’m old. I don’t got much time left, but you’ve got a while to decide. Where do you want to be when you die?”

Petyr blinked. He didn’t have an answer; he was always more concerned with life than death. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“You should.” Grisel motioned to the cafeteria around them. “Most of us here are war veterans, old people or unfortunate souls. In here, you’re young. Rich. Full of life and promise. But out there, in the real world?” She pointed to the door. “It’s anybody’s guess. Pick a spot where you want to die, find a list of things you want done by then, and aim for it.”

“Aim for it?” Petyr repeated.

“Yes. Aim with your best shot.”

“Hm.” He stroked his beard. “And what about you? Where do you want to die?”

“In my husband’s arms,” she said wistfully. “My children waiting just outside, playin’ with my grandbabies in the yard. A hot meal on the table to feed them. Could be raining, could be sunny, I don’t care. But if I die with my happy family around me, I’ll be alright.”

Petyr couldn’t picture it. Grisel had never talked about a husband before. She had no children, no family. She only wanted cigarettes and filthy stories about Sansa. He quirked his brow at her. After a few seconds, Grisel burst into loud, impolite laughter. “Who am I kidding!” she cackled. “There’s no happy ending for people like us.”

“You’re an interesting woman, Grisel,” said Petyr with a grin. But the image she’d given him was haunting somehow.

“Anyway,” she continued, “that’s my advice to you. From one fucked up person to another.” Grisel reached across the table and touched his hand. “It was good to meet you, Petyr. Good luck.”

“And to you.” Petyr shook her hand. He took his cane, pushed himself up, and left the cafeteria more confused than he was before.

When Petyr returned to his room, a nurse was already packing his things. He hadn’t brought much to the facility, just some clothes and books. A wheelchair sat in the center of the room. “Mr. Baelish,” said the woman with a smile. “You look nice! Are you ready to check out?”

“More than ready,” he replied. He winced from his aching wounds; he’d been standing for too long.

“Here. Come sit in the chair, Mr. Baelish. I’ll give you your last dose of medicine.”

“No,” Petyr protested, leaning heavily on his cane. “I’m not sitting in that thing.”

“It’s protocol,” said the nurse. “Everyone has to sit in a wheelchair on their way out. I know it might not make much sense, but—”

“I said _no._ ” Petyr ground his teeth. He lifted his hand to hold his stomach.

The nurse sighed. “I’m sorry, but legally we can’t have you—”

“Just forget it,” he spat. He would fall over if he didn’t sit down. Petyr refused to let the nurse help him into the wheelchair, and bending was almost unbearable, but he managed. Sitting down relieved some of the pain. He draped his cane across his lap and accepted the final dose of medication gratefully, leaning his head back to swallow it dry.

The nurse wheeled him out into the hallway. Petyr could suffer embarrassment for a short while. It wasn’t like these people would ever see him again, anyway.

Petyr tried to hold his dignity together, but the closer he got to the facility entrance, the more nervous he felt. Would Sansa come to pick him up? She’d said she would, but Petyr had the sudden realization that she didn’t owe him anything. Sansa could abandon him and disappear entirely. No matter what Littlefinger might think, Petyr would know he deserved it.

The nurse pushed his chair around the corner. Petyr saw her there, Sansa, his Sansa, going over paperwork with the doctor. She was ready for spring in a blue dress with white patterned flowers, and a cardigan of the same length. He felt like a fool for doubting her.

Sansa turned around. She smiled when she saw him. For a moment, Petyr had some idea of the kind of death Grisel was talking about.

The doctor said some final words to Sansa about Petyr’s care, but he didn’t hear them. He was focused on her eyes, her Irish hair, her mouth when she spoke. Petyr didn’t come out of his trance until the doctor and the nurse had left. Did they say goodbye to him? He couldn’t remember.

“Hi,” said Sansa shyly, when it was just the two of them.

Petyr didn’t respond. He reached out and kissed her hand.

With help from Sansa, Petyr stood with his cane and walked out of the facility. The air was fresh with the smell of spring rain and budding flowers, new beginnings. Sansa helped him across the car park while holding his small bag of belongings. Thankfully, the distance from the facility’s entrance to his Bentley wasn’t a long one.

“My car,” Petyr said in recognition. “I thought it would’ve been burned in the fire.”

“One of the Spanish men drove it to the hospital after everything happened,” said Sansa. “Would’ve been bad to find your car at the scene of a crime, wouldn’t it?”

“Perhaps, yes.”

Sansa placed his things on the backseat. She moved to open the passenger door, but Petyr reached for her arm to stop her. Sansa blinked. “Humor me,” he said.

Sansa paused. Petyr watched her eyes melt when he caressed her cheek. He leaned forward, brushing his nose against hers. His skin remembered her softness, the way his chest felt when their foreheads touched, the greed of a man holding a treasure he didn’t deserve.

Petyr leaned down and pressed a kiss to her collarbone. Just one.

The drive back to the manor went too quickly. Petyr wanted privacy with Sansa. He wanted to talk to her, hold her, hear her laugh, hear her cry. He kept hold of her hand through the ride, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be.

Mayana let out a happy cry when Petyr walked through the door. She threw her arms around him so fast that he had to warn her to be gentle, and Olyvar cracked jokes about Petyr’s cane. They were all there: Lothor and his family, Sandor Clegane, Val, and Arya’s homeless friends. All present for the Starks themselves, of course. Not for him. But it was pleasant to see such a large group enjoying the home he was fond of.

Petyr was too tired to walk upstairs to his room, so he sat in the living room to rest. Sansa and Mya were busy cooking. Lothor, Jon and everyone else were playing football outside. Petyr stayed on the couch by the fireplace, telling Mayana and Olyvar about his rehabilitation and physical therapy, about his diagnoses and Grisel and the irritating nursing staff. After a quarter hour, Mya announced that lunch was finally served. Everyone went to the kitchen for the meal. Petyr, not wanting to be alone, walked as best as he could down the hallway to follow them.

He pushed open the door. Everyone was there, the entire household, grabbing plates and talking and laughing. Sandor and Mayana poured drinks. Sansa and Mya cut up sandwiches for the little ones. Arya and her friends were teaching the dog a new trick, Jon and his wife teased Olyvar for his windswept hair, and the old man was sitting alone in the corner, smiling over them all.

 _I don’t belong here,_  Petyr realized. When had he ever felt unworthy of anything? He always took what he wanted and gave no apology, but these happy faces under his roof made him feel out of place.

“You gonna join us, Pete?” asked Mayana. Everyone fell quiet when she pointed him out.

With a shaking sigh, Petyr shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” He turned from the kitchen and left.

Petyr had never seen so much joy in one place. Even when his three companions would drink or go out, they were never happy, tangled in some extortion plot or scandal a day later. Petyr didn’t seem to recognize happiness. The people in his kitchen were at peace in each other’s company, carefree, and it was foreign to him.

Petyr leaned on the rail and heaved himself up the first few stairs. His body ached in complaint. Before he made it halfway, he felt a hand at his back, looping around him to help him steady.

Sansa frowned when he looked at her. “You need help.”

Petyr didn’t fight; he was grateful just to be close to her. He leaned on Sansa as she helped him climb the steps, and walked into his bedroom at last. Sansa had been sleeping here. A glass of water sat on the nightstand and the bed wasn’t made. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, kicked off his shoes and let Sansa help him settle in, putting pillows behind his back. “There,” she said when he was comfortable. “How’s that?”

“Good,” said Petyr.  _Lay with me._

Sansa half-smiled. “I’m going to eat now, but I’ll come up after.”

She turned. Sansa hadn’t made it to the door before he called out to her. “Sansa,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to wait. Please.”

Sansa knew his meaning. She chewed her lip in thought. For a moment Petyr thought she would leave, but she crossed the room and returned to him, pulling up an ottoman to sit at his bedside. “Let’s talk, then.”

Anxiety gnawed at Petyr’s confidence. He wished he could stand and hold her, assure her, but he’d moved too much already and his body was sore. Helpless.

“Why… why did you give me to…” Sansa didn’t have to finish her sentence. Petyr had answered Mayana when she’d asked the same thing, but telling Sansa to her face was impossible.

“I told you about needing Lannister and Bolton loyalty,” said Petyr. His mouth was dry. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Sansa didn’t look convinced. She trembled when she sighed. “Gregor Clegane almost raped me.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t,” she snapped. “He had me on my back, Petyr, he was _so close._ It would’ve happened if I hadn’t escaped on my own. Jon and Lothor were too late. _You_ were too late.”

Petyr was speechless. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No apology would be enough.

“I cried for so long in that cell. I felt like you’d abandoned me, like Ramsay had come all over again. He was everywhere. Haunting me.” Sansa shivered and held herself. “But I can’t — I can’t blame you for Gregor’s actions. You made a mistake and you hurt me, but you were right in the end. Cersei and Roose are dead, Tywin will go to prison, Jon and Arya are safe. Everything you promised came true.”

“No,” he rasped. “It wasn’t worth it. I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so sorry.” He watched her fidget nervously. Every move was a nail in his hands. “If there is anything in my power to undo what was done, say the word. Anything at all.”

To Petyr’s surprise, a tear fell down her face. Sansa whimpered and it broke him. “Falling in love is so scary,” she admitted. “Letting someone in as deep as you are, to see everything I have behind me. Who else would want to do that? Who else could ever know what scares me, what touches I like, how to hold me when I have a nightmare? Even if there is someone crazy enough to want to, I could never trust anyone the way I trusted you.” Sansa wiped her tears with her wrists, never looking at him. “I should hate you. No one understands it, I don’t either. But I don’t want to lose you, Petyr. Not ever.”

Sansa’s devotion crushed him as equally as his shame. Crushed him, unmade him, leaving him splintered. “You will lose me someday,” he said. “I’m much older than you. I’ll turn 80 the year you turn 55. Time will take its course.”

“I never cared about your age. It's just a number.”

“Will you still be saying that when I can barely get out of bed?”

“You can barely get out of bed now,” she countered.

Petyr sighed. “That’s not the same.”

Sansa’s eyes flashed with anger. “How could you think that after everything we’ve been through I would change my mind because you’re _too old?_  Do you—” Her words caught in her throat. “Do you really think that low of me?”

“No,” he said softly, carefully. “I want you to be aware of what you’re asking for.”

“I am aware. I’ve been aware. I made you dinner on your 43rd birthday without hesitation, if you remember.”

“Sansa—”

“You’re trying to open my eyes to a truth I already know.” Sansa’s insistence fell to tenderness. “Your age doesn’t bother me. It’s Littlefinger that bothers me. Age, the past, our history, none of it matters. If you can put your mask aside, I’ll take you as you are. Now and always.”

Petyr wanted to reprimand her, to tell her she was wrong. But her words spoke to him across decades, to a child who’d ached to hear them. He cleared his throat. Clenched his fists, his jaw. Sansa was watching him, worried, but her worry turned to confusion when he gave her a command. “Bottom drawer,” Petyr said. “The bottom drawer of my nightstand. There’s a box.” He ground his teeth. “I want you to find it.”

Sansa looked down at the drawer in question. She opened it, fishing through journals and year-old paperwork until she found the item in question. Petyr didn’t look at Sansa, but he could feel her eyes on him when she turned her head.

“I did a lot of thinking in that godforsaken facility,” said Petyr, staring at his blanket. He sighed. Shifted uncomfortably. What were the right words? “Switzerland is beautiful this time of year. The Fingers are dull, but with our money combined, we could make something of it. Build a town. Support local farmers, bring in trade and business. Build roads. Cell towers. Make Lucerne and the Fingers more mutually accessible to each other. My family estate isn’t much, but we could tear it down and build a new one. Something bigger, better. Something we like.”

He heard her crying again. Petyr still couldn’t look at her, and he didn’t know why. His throat felt very tight.

“What about Littlefinger?” Sansa asked.

“Mayana will take over. I’ll help her whenever she needs me. She’s been ready for this for a long time, but I haven’t been.” Petyr looked at Sansa’s shaking hands. “I am now.”

Sansa wipe tears from her cheeks. “How can I know you really mean it? How do I know you won’t change your mind?”

Petyr couldn’t avoid her forever. He met Sansa’s gaze. Her fear showed so strongly that it pained him, but he was determined to soothe her. “I’ve been devoted to myself for a long time,” he said gently, “and I was satisfied with that. But I was never happy. With you, I could be. This is how I can prove my devotion.” Petyr cleared his raw throat. “I could never love anything as madly as I love you.”

Sansa’s giggle broke into a sob. She covered her mouth to hide it, looking down to the small box in her hand. She hadn’t opened it yet. Petyr pushed himself upright. Sansa tried to stop him, but Petyr waved her away, sitting up to face her fully.

“Sansa.”

“Wait, wait, before you ask.” Sansa pressed a hand to his chest. “What about Jon and Arya?”

“They can come if they wish,” said Petyr. “But Arya can’t live with us. She can consider that repayment for almost killing me.”

Sansa chuckled before taking a moment to process. She looked at the box again, rolling it over in her palm. “You know what I want, don’t you? It’s not just about being safe. It’s more than that.” She sighed. “I know you don’t like children…”

“You want a family,” he said.

“I always have. Mum and Father inspired me. They were such good parents. I want to make them proud.”

“I don’t hate children,” Petyr clarified. “But you know me. I would be a terrible father.”

“In a few years, that might not be true.” Sansa sniffled. “I don’t know. It’s just what I want…”

Gone were the days where he disappointed her. Unable to keep to himself, Petyr traced her jawline with his thumb. “Don’t let my disdain for Lothor’s kids make you worry, Sansa. If a family is what you want, I will adapt.” Petyr lifted her chin. “I told you that whatever was in my power, I would do to help you. You are my cause.”

“I appreciate that,” said Sansa, “but that’s not how this works.” She took his hand from her chin and held it tight. “You have to stop seeing me as something to take care of. We’re equal, Petyr. I provide for you as much as you provide for me.”

Petyr furrowed his brow. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It should be. It needs to be.” She kissed his knuckles. “If you want to love me, you have to be vulnerable. We need to take care of each other.”

Petyr had promised her everything. Already he was being tested. Knowing it would take time to unlearn decades of brokenness, he offered what he could; “I’ll work on it.”

Sansa smiled. She leaned forward to press her forehead against his. “Together is the only way we move forward.”

 _Aim for it,_ Grisel had said. “Together.”

Petyr took the box from Sansa’s hand and pulled it open. The ring hadn't moved from where it’d been left, an antique oval diamond with smaller diamonds around the perimeter. “This was my mother’s,” he said, pulling the ring from its place. “Now it belongs to you.” Petyr held her left hand delicately and slipped the ring on her finger. A perfect fit.

Sansa sobbed only a moment before wrapping her arms around him, kissing him fervently, a kiss he returned with gratitude. They didn’t stop when Petyr settled carefully back into bed, when Sansa straddled him, when he held her so close that it became hard to breathe. Their lips stayed locked between smiles. He kissed her tears and she kissed his. Petyr wasn’t certain what the near future held, but he felt he could conquer any obstacle. There was only one truth that mattered: Petyr would devote himself to Sansa for the rest of his days, no matter how long that may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DON'T LOOK AT ME I'M CRYING**


	34. Warriors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [all night; beyoncé] ◆ [[the tower; ramin djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sylWyYXgSXo)]   
> 

  
**28 APRIL, 2017**

With time, husband and wife to-be settled into a daily routine. Wake at eight for antibiotics and medicine, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, wake Arya. Brief Mayana and Olyvar on their tasks. Walk Ghost. Lunch. Physical therapy, and the rest of the day was theirs. Petyr and Sansa spent every waking and sleeping moment within reach of one another to rebuild what was broken. They started with their friendship, which had never died at all, and built upward. He surprised her with a candlelit dinner in the garden. She massaged his back when he was sore from recovery. They exchanged their favorite books and movies, and together they discovered a mutual love of birdwatching.

It had become clear to Sansa from the moment he’d given her his mother’s ring; Petyr Baelish was a changed man.

The healing process for the rest of the group was just as sweetly slow. They visited Ros every evening, placing flowers on her grave and talking late into the night about the good times. Sandor and Mayana went on a date. Jon and Val taught Ghost six new commands, including how to fetch Petyr’s cane and bring it to him. Lommy and Hot Pie were enrolled in school, and Olyvar had taken on the task of teaching Arya what she was missing in her education; she was learning, despite arguments. Gendry’s mother had taken him back home. Petyr gave her the funds to take Lommy and Hot Pie too, and Arya stayed close with them, visiting every few days. The house became calmer when Lothor and Mya left with the children. Before long, it was just the few of them: Petyr, Sansa, Mayana, Olyvar, Jon, Val, Arya and Mr. Luwin. And Ghost, who wasn’t like to be forgotten.

Sansa was at peace until judgment day came. Daenerys Targaryen would give her verdict on their crimes, for everything that had happened. Sansa wanted to believe that what she’d found with her family was strong enough to withstand whatever fate could throw at them, but she knew better. Anything —  _anything_  — could break.

Sansa helped Petyr into the elevator of the Parliament building, alongside Mayana, Olyvar and Arya. She pressed the button to ascend. Petyr leaned against the rail to take a break from standing. Moving too much was still hard for him, but his stubbornness wouldn’t let him use a wheelchair. Even asking him to bring his cane was a battle. Sansa slipped her arm around his torso to steady his balance, and her worry. He pulled her close and kissed her head.

“I wish Jon was here,” said Arya, folding her arms.

“It wasn’t safe,” said Mayana. “He’s still wanted by the Night’s Watch. We don’t know what they’d do if they found him alive.”

“I know. But if he were here, I wouldn’t have to watch  _them._ ” Arya threw a glare at Petyr and Sansa. Petyr smirked, pressing another long kiss to Sansa’s cheek, making her giggle. Arya shook her head in disgust, but her tiny grin didn’t go unnoticed. If nothing else, Arya appreciated how Petyr could make Sansa smile.

When they reached the top floor, Sansa helped Petyr into a chair in the small lobby. The building was elaborate, old paintings and furniture and marble floors, but luxury meant nothing to Sansa when her happiness was on the line. Daenerys’s assistant smiled as she passed. Her name tag read MISSANDEI. “The Prime Minister will be with you shortly,” she told them. Missandei entered the office and closed the door, leaving the group alone.

Sansa’s leg couldn’t stop bouncing. She checked the time obsessively, sighing when it was still ten to noon.

“Relax, my love.” Petyr reached over the arm of the chair and took her hand, kissing her knuckles. “Have faith in my ability to negotiate.”

“I do,” said Sansa. “Just not hers.” She looked nervously to the door. “I won’t let her take any of you away.”

He directed her chin toward him. “Nothing will separate us,” Petyr said. “They know what happens to people who try.”

“Are they always like this?” Arya asked Olyvar. He only groaned.

Fifteen long minutes passed before the office door opened. Daenerys’s assistant greeted them once more, and if Sansa weren’t so scared, she would’ve fallen for the assurance. “Prime Minister Targaryen is ready to see you now.”

Sansa took a slow breath. She helped Petyr stand, and walked with him into the office.

Daenerys Targaryen was sitting behind an oak wood desk, hands folded, looking stern and regal. Queen Myrcella stood beside her.

“Your Majesty,” said Petyr in surprise. “I didn’t know you would be here as well.”

Myrcella didn’t respond. She looked like she wanted to snap at him, but her eyes softened when she noticed how wounded he was. Sansa helped Petyr sit in one of the chairs. He draped his cane over his lap, and Sansa stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Arya sat in the chair opposite him, Olyvar and Mayana at her side.

Silence. Sansa didn’t know what to focus on. She smiled at Myrcella, and to her relief, the queen smiled back. But it was a smile of sadness.  _She misses her mother._

Daenerys picked up a piece of paper. Out loud, read a list of over a dozen names. Everyone who had died, whose blood was on Petyr and Arya’s hands, and Sansa’s. Ramsay Bolton and Gregor Clegane were the names Daenerys ended with.

“Those deaths should not be held against Sansa,” Petyr insisted. “Your claim to fairness is admirable, Prime Minister, but the system did not deliver for her. She can’t be blamed for making her own justice.”

“I agree,” said Myrcella. “Ramsay and Gregor would do more damage if they were alive than they do. I’m willing to overlook it.”

Daenerys paused, considered, then nodded. “Very well.”

A small victory. Sansa took no joy in it.

“I killed people because I had to,” Arya blurted. “Why does it count for Sansa’s justice and not for mine?”

“Because you killed Walder Frey’s two sons,” said Daenerys. “There was no evidence that they had anything to do with the sex trafficking ring or the murder of your family. They were innocent.”

“Were not! They were friends with the Boltons and Cersei’s men. They knew what was happening.”

“Does that mark them for death? Merely associating with their father’s accomplices?”

“I—” Arya huffed. “No, but—”

“So you admit that you murdered them without cause.”

“Prime Minister,” said Petyr, “I don’t think it’s fair of you to interrogate a sixteen-year-old. She did what she had to do to survive in a world that did nothing to help her.”

“You want us to bypass those deaths too?” Daenerys tested. “Why should I listen to what you want? You’re the most guilty of anyone here.”

Petyr folded his hands in his lap. “What’s done is done. I have no desire to bicker over the dead, all of whom deserved their graves. Washing the slate clean saves everyone time and money.”

Daenerys was unconvinced. “If I really cared about saving time and money, I would have had you arrested a long time ago. Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done?”

Petyr shrugged. “We had business to take care of.”

“You specifically went against my orders.”

“I’ve never been one for orders. Any that aren’t mine, at least.”

“You’re going to cost us millions in repairs to the Thames house. The queen lost her mother.”

“And Tywin Lannister is in a cell,” Petyr shot back. “As much as it pains me to think of our queen in mourning, the Lannisters would have jeopardized this country. At least  _I_  was never a threat to national security. Anyone who would hurt Sansa is out of the picture, just as I planned.”

Daenerys’s eyes flared. “Your plans are not my plans.”

“Yet everyone benefits from them.”

Sansa felt like she was going to vomit. Nothing good would come of Petyr and Daenerys butting heads, batting insults back and forth at each other with no end in sight. She had to do something. “Please,” Sansa pleaded. “Let me speak in his defense.”

Slowly, all eyes turned to her.

“Sansa?” said Myrcella. “After everything he’s put you through…?”

“I don’t want to be questioned on why I’m still here,” she asserted. “I want my decision to be respected, Your Majesty, just as you would defend your love for Prince Trystane if anyone insulted him.”

“Trystane is my husband,” Myrcella countered.

“And Petyr will be mine.” Sansa squeezed her fiancé’s shoulder. “We’re getting married. The date’s already set.”

Myrcella and Daenerys shared a look of surprise. “Really?” asked the queen. “You’re serious?”

“January 1st,” Sansa confirmed. “New Year’s Day. A fresh start. That’s all I’m asking for, Myrcella. Prime Minister. We just… we just want a fresh start.”

Daenerys sighed, leaning back in her chair. “I can’t just hand out ‘fresh starts’ to anyone who asks for them. Unless you can prove to me why you all deserve one?”

Sansa straightened her back. She was prepared for this. “No one got justice for me, Arya or Jon. For my murdered family. The Boltons and Lannisters were monsters. They would have hurt more than just me if they were allowed to carry on.”

“You think that justifies all that was done?” asked Daenerys.

“Of course not. But it justifies any means necessary to protect me and my family, and that’s exactly what Petyr, Jon and Arya did.”

More silence. Sansa had control of the room, and she intended to keep it.

“I’m not asking you to let us walk free,” said Sansa. “We’ll leave the country. All of us.”

“Including your brother Jon?” asked Daenerys. “I thought he might have a part in this. I didn’t mention it to the Night’s Watch for… personal reasons. I’m sure you understand.”

Sansa did. “He’s been with us the whole time,” she said. “He’s safe. He’s already planned on leaving the country with my sister and his wife.”

Daenerys worked her jaw, drumming her fingers on the back of her hand. “I believe I can grant your request to leave. But _he_ won’t be coming back.” Daenerys motioned to Petyr with her chin. “Littlefinger has done enough to this country. I’ll have him arrested the next time he steps on British soil.”

“If that’s what you want.” Sansa rubbed Petyr’s shoulder for grounding.

“Do you agree, Littlefinger?” asked the Prime Minister.

Petyr nodded. “Prison doesn’t suit me.”

“I personally beg to differ.”

One victory had been earned, but there was more to say. Sansa shifted nervously. She looked at Arya, then back to Daenerys, knowing she had to speak before the opportunity was gone. “I have… I have one more thing to add, if that’s alright. Just one.”

Daenerys cocked her brow. Her patience was thin. “What is it?”

Sansa swallowed her nausea. She hated how strength came and went, feeble like the tide. “After my mother and brothers died, I was taken. Ramsay kept me for three months starting the night of the funeral, so I never got to sit shiva.”

“I didn’t even think about that,” said Arya. “Sansa’s right. We need to sit shiva and visit our family’s graves before we go.”

Daenerys looked to the sisters. “Shiva lasts a week, doesn’t it?”

“Only one,” Sansa replied. “That’s all I ask for. It’ll be hard enough on our own. I don’t want to do it without Petyr near, if you’ll allow him to stay. Just for that week, please.” Petyr reached up and took Sansa’s hand, holding it tight.

Daenerys and Myrcella took a moment to discuss. Sansa didn’t say anything in fear that her breakfast would come up instead. She gripped Petyr’s hand and prayed.  _Please,_  she begged,  _a fresh start for all of us. Please. Please._

Daenerys turned directly to Petyr. “You will stay only for Sansa,” she said. “Then you leave.”

“Then I leave,” Petyr repeated.

“You will pay for all the damages inflicted on the Thames House.”

“Fine.”

“All your stolen goods will be left behind.”

“I already have what I need,” said Petyr.

Daenerys seemed satisfied. “I will give you two weeks. One for shiva, and another to pack and prepare. But only out of good faith with the Stark family who, for some reason, have decided to take you in.”

Sansa sighed in such heavy relief that she nearly choked. She covered her mouth with her free hand and moved away, summoning all her willpower to swallow her tears.

“Thank you,” said Mayana to the two dignitaries. “This means the world to us.”

“You’re welcome.”

 _No,_  Sansa cursed,  _stop crying, you always cry._  But her tears spilled anyway. Petyr stood from his chair and pulled her into his arms, rubbing her back. “Shh,” he whispered. “It’s alright, my love. Everything will be alright.” Even Arya came to her, holding her hand to help her through.

Finally, _finally,_ Sansa had a future to look forward to.

She was almost free.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**7 MAY, 2017**

Shiva began with no small amount of sorrow. Sansa told herself she was ready. She’d prayed and prepared as strictly as needed. She wouldn’t dishonor her family by not sitting shiva according to law, and she wouldn’t let Ramsay’s memory take her mourning from her a second time. The stress ate at Sansa more than it should, but she ignored it for the same reason she brought it upon herself in the first place.

Sansa, Jon and Arya had dozens of visitors on the first day. People from their father’s temple and mother’s parish, old friends and colleagues, neighbors, coworkers, members of Parliament. Even Olenna and Margaery came for a visit. Sansa forgave Olenna for her well-intended betrayal of Petyr, but she wouldn’t let Margaery hug her, shying away from a potential embrace and barely speaking when spoken to. Greeting people was forbidden. Even with friends, even for comfort. She would sit shiva the right way, or not at all.

Sansa sat on a low crate by herself. She didn’t wear makeup, didn’t change into fresh clothes, didn’t share a bed with Petyr. Didn’t read, didn’t smile. Her diligence worked for the first few hours, until everyone who came to visit fell into a blur of faces she couldn’t recognize. Her energy was channeled solely to misery, forcing herself to feel it all at once. That was the point, wasn’t it?

On the second day of shiva, Sansa didn’t speak a single word. On the third, she became hollow. She sat low to the ground in a black dress and socks every night until midnight, and then crawled into one of the guest beds to sleep alone, without pillows.  _This is the right way,_  she kept telling herself.  _This is how it has to be done. I can’t let him take it from me again, not again._

Jon and Arya confronted her on the fourth night.

“What’re you doin’, Sansa?” asked Jon gently. It was eleven at night. All the visitors had left. Only Sansa still sat in the living room, by herself. “We’re worried about you. Go upstairs, go be with Petyr or something.”

“Or not,” said Arya. “But at least get fresh clothes?”

Sansa felt tears in her eyes, and she hated them. “I can’t. I have to do it right. According to the law, I have to—”

“This is insane,” Arya spat. “Since when are we this Orthodox? You’re miserable, Sansa. Everyone’s noticed.”

“Everyone,” Jon agreed. “Even the visitors.”

Sansa held her arms. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “Ramsay took this from me. I have to do it right this time, I have to.”

“Just because you were hurt before doesn’t mean you ever mourned wrong,” said Jon, crouching down to Sansa’s level. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.”

“But it has to be.” Sansa felt a tear fall. “I can’t let anything ruin it.”

“Don’t you think that hurting yourself is just another way Ramsay’s ruining it?” asked Arya. “It doesn’t—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sansa sniffled and hugged her knees. “Just go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jon sighed in defeat. He stood and motioned for Arya to follow him, and Sansa’s siblings left her alone.

Sansa wiped her tears as they continued to fall.  _What if they’re right?_  she panicked,  _what if Ramsay still has a hold on me? What if I’m like this because of him?_  She felt revolting, torn away from her healing and falling victim to what had already been done. Grief was cruel that way. It came for the castle she’d built, chipping away at the stones.

Someone sat on the edge of the table in front of her. Sansa thought it was Jon, but when she looked up, she saw the kindly face of Mr. Luwin. “Shh,” cooed the old man before she could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s alright. Let it out.”

Sansa broke into shaking sobs. Ugly tears, full of drool and snot and hiccups and despair. Her skull was near to bursting. She took the tissues Luwin offered. He didn’t say anything as she wept, staying right where he was, silently beside her as she fought through the darkness.

Sansa didn’t know how much time had passed when she’d finally calmed. She felt meek and little and shy. Luwin smiled sadly when she looked up at him. “What are you doing out here?” Sansa asked.

“Helping you,” he said. “I think it’s time we had our discussion, don’t you think? It pains me to see you so unhappy.”

“I guess.” Sansa fumbled with the Kleenex in her hands, trying to think of what to say. “You’re a victim of violence too, then?”

Luwin nodded.

“You’ve been through so much worse than I have. I’m such an idiot, crying like this. All I ever do is cry.” She sobbed again. “What I went through is nothing next to what you suffered.”

“You should avoid making comparisons,” he said. “Our grief is one. I mourn for you and your family, just as you mourn for me. We Jews are unique in that way. If anything, let what I’ve learned help you.”

Sansa wiped her nose. “What happened to you?”

Luwin, sighing, shook his head. “That is another story for another time. This conversation is about you. I fear that no one under this roof has been able to reach the part of you that needs tending the most.”

“I don’t know what that part is.”

Luwin pointed to the center of her chest. “Your spirit, here. The essence of who you are. You have survived so much terror, my dear, but being a survivor is not the finish line. Your path to healing doesn’t end there, despite what you may have been told.”

Sansa was confused. “Where does it end?”

“It ends when you become a warrior.” He held out his hands. Sansa placed hers in his, softly. “I thought I was a survivor as the years went on. Everyone wanted to put that title on me. Survivor this, survivor that. But do you know what I realized? Labelling yourself as a survivor means you’re still surviving something. It’s not a title of triumph. The cloud still hangs over you. Warriors, though, they have already won their battles. Survived _past_ them to earn their title, leaving their war behind.”

“I can’t be that,” said Sansa. “It’s all still inside me. Ramsay, my family, everything. I thought it was gone.” Her shoulders slumped. “You’re stronger than I’ve ever been.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much. It may be years before you are able to look back on these experiences and no longer feel the pain that plagues you now. But these tears, here—” Luwin wiped one from her cheek. “—they are your strength. Combined with your words, they have healing power. You can’t soak tears back into your eyes, can you? Can you shove words back in your mouth?”

“No,” said Sansa.

“Neither can you relive the past. With every tear, every word, what happened to you becomes further and further away until it’s so far in the distance you can barely see it. That is what makes a warrior.”

Sansa sniffled. “Do you really believe that?”

“With all my heart.” He squeezed her hands. “And I believe in you.”

Sansa couldn’t hide her smile.

“Now. Not to be blunt, but this isn’t working for you.” Luwin motioned to her crate. “Sitting shiva is not supposed to make you suffer like this. It’s a time of remembrance and reflection. A time for comfort. And I don’t think the old laws were written with mental illness in mind.” He ran his thumb over her ring. “Does being with your intended make you happy?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do reading and greeting people and laughing make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Does taking a bath make you happy?”

“Yes,” she chuckled.

“Then _be happy._ God does not wish for your pain.” Luwin cupped her face. Sansa clung to his arms desperately, like he was a lifeline.

“But how will I know when I’ve become a warrior?” she asked.

“Oh, child. You’re already there.”

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

**10 MAY, 2017**

The fifth day of shiva was better than the first four combined. Sansa allowed herself to relax. She greeted those who visited, hugged them, talked with them, laughed and cried with them. It was just as Luwin said it would be. There were tears, too, but with tears came recovery. Because of it, Jon, Sansa and Arya bonded closer to each other and those around them.

There were many visitors over the course of the week. Loras Tyrell and Prince Renly, Officer Brienne, Varys, even Jeyne, who had flown all the way from California before finals week to be by Sansa’s side. A _minyan_ came to the manor so the Starks could say Kaddish. Myrcella stopped by for tea. Daenerys Targaryen sent a heartfelt card, addressed only to Sansa. The days meshed together, but every night when Sansa fell asleep in Petyr's arms, she felt lighter and freer than the day before.

The final visitor was the only one who’d made an appointment. On the last day of shiva, when the doorbell rang after sunset, Sansa swallowed her nerves and opened the front door.

Tyrion Lannister stood on the threshold with Shae and their little daughter. “Miss Stark,” he said politely.

“Mr. Lannister,” she replied. Sansa took his offered hand and squeezed it in greeting. She hugged Shae and fawned over the babbling Florence, a little blonde-haired angel barely five months old. Sansa couldn’t wait to have children, in a few years when things were calm, in a place of her own.  _Will Shae mind if I live through her until then?_

Together, Lannisters and Starks talked over cookies and tea. Sansa told Tyrion about her engagement and Val and Shae bonded through their common ground. All the while, Petyr sat in the background barely saying a word, his nose buried in another book Sansa was making him read. He looked at her across the room. Sansa smiled, not withholding her affection — she loved how his reading glasses looked on him — and he smiled back. Knowing he was there kept her anchored and calm.

“Shall we get to business, then?” asked Tyrion when two hours had passed. “I don’t want to keep Florence out too late. We’re finally getting her into a schedule.”

“Sure,” said Jon. “In the living room?”

“Please.”

The group moved to the sitting area by the hearth. Tyrion entered with a briefcase. Sansa made sure Petyr was comfortably situated before smoothing out her skirt and sitting between Arya and Jon on the couch. She wondered if everyone could hear how quickly her heart was beating.

From the briefcase, Tyrion retrieved a manila file, just like the one Tywin once had. He offered Sansa a pen. “Sign on the highlighted lines,” he said, “and your inheritance is yours.”

The room fell quiet. Sansa held the paperwork carefully, as if it might go up in flames. Her family, her assets, all laid out in black and white. She read over everything with Jon and Arya, but when the time came for her signature, her hand hovered over the dotted line. She couldn’t bring pen to paper. “How many people died for this?” she asked quietly. “How many lives were changed for the worse…?”

“Don’t think about that,” said Jon. “Think about the lives we can save instead.”

 _Good point._  Without hesitation, Sansa signed.

“Olyvar,” said Tyrion, “there’s a box in the trunk of my car. Could you get it for me?”

“Sure.” Olyvar caught Tyrion’s keys when he tossed them, and left.

“While your friend gets the final piece, can I ask what do you plan on doing with this fortune of yours?” Tyrion leaned back in his chair. “Surely you’ve put some thought into it.”

“We have. Petyr and I want to build a town on the Fingers,” Sansa explained. “It’s where he was born, in Switzerland. But before that, I want to build sexual violence shelters across the UK and fund free counseling programs. It would be nice to build a temple where my family died, too. Arya and Jon are going to Scotland. My sister wants to build homes for the homeless and Jon wants to move the refugees of Val’s village somewhere safe. We’re going to be living in Marseilles until the houses we’re building are finished, about six months from now, so we’ll have time to do some things before we settle down. On top of wedding plans and all that.”

Tyrion whistled. “Wow. Those are incredible ideas. Ambitious, but incredible.”

“Thank you,” said Sansa, with pride. “I want to write a book too, and once I’ve raised a family I’ll start public speaking and doing more activism…” Sansa cleared her throat. “But you probably don’t care to know all that. Sorry.”

“No, it’s good. I’m glad you have goals. That’s important.”

“ _We_ have goals,” Sansa corrected. “But thank you, really. It means a lot to know that we have support.”

Tyrion nodded in respect. “You’re most welcome. And for what it’s worth, you’re going to be a beautiful bride.”

Olyvar reentered the room with a massive box that he barely kept hold of. He set it down as gently as he could on the table.

“What is all this?” Sansa asked.

“The contents of your parents’ safe,” Tyrion replied. “Everything in that box was protected from the fire, or found intact at the scene.”

“No,” said Arya. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Time stopped for the Starks. Sansa shared a look of disbelief with Arya and Jon.  _Who wants to open it?_  she asked with her eyes, and Jon took the liberty. The first item was their father’s menorah, fashioned in the shape of an elegant tree branch. Jon carefully pulled it from the box. Ash and soot had tarnished the silver, but it could be cleaned. Sansa felt closer to their father just touching the object than she had since their last embrace. “God,” said Jon, voice thick with emotion. “It’s just as I remember it.”

“Minus the stains,” said Sansa.

“We’ll have it clean before next Hanukkah.” Arya peeked into the box. “Here, let’s get the rest.”

Most of the remaining items were fireproof things that had been left behind. Their mother’s jewelry and silverware, some of their father’s tools. Old silver coins, knickknacks. But the bottom of the box held something worth more than any fortune. A large book, with the words “FAMILY ALBUM” typed on the front.

Tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes. She thought about what Luwin had said, and decided to let them flow. She picked up the album and opened it across her lap as Arya placed the box on the floor, and the siblings leaned in close to look through the memories together.

The first pages held photos of their parents’ wedding. The rabbi prayed over them, standing between the four pillars as their father cried. Her mother looked so happy, and Jon’s mother, Lyanna, was seen clapping when they kissed. “They’re so young,” said Sansa, running her fingertips over the pictures as if she could pull her parents from history and bring them back into the world. Her engagement ring glittered under the ceiling light.

Arya turned to the next page. “It’s Robb!” she chuckled. “When he was just born.” The picture next to Robb’s birth captured the infants Robb and Jon, with their mothers. Sansa squeezed Jon’s hand under the book. He squeezed back.

The scrapbook went on through every significant Stark memory. The birth of the rest of the children and their birthdays every year, Aunt Lyanna’s funeral, family vacations, bar and bat mitzvahs and Sansa’s First Communion, Christmas parties, Father’s nomination for Parliament, Robb’s graduation, his wedding with Talisa and Little Ned’s only ultrasound.

The rest of the pages were blank.

Sansa wanted to keep crying, but her energy was gone. She was too heartbroken at the absence of more memories to look back on.

“I don’t want the pictures to stop,” said Arya.

Sansa closed the book, running her fingers over the cover. She, Arya and Jon were all that remained of their family. Her optimism ached to shine, to promise that they would all have families of their own, but the sadness of reality made her doubt. Scotland and Switzerland were so far apart.

“Maybe they don’t have to stop,” Jon said. Arya and Sansa both looked at him. “We can take more pictures. Finish the book.”

“But we’ll be so far from each other,” Sansa replied.

“I dunno. I heard Switzerland is beautiful this time of year.”

“Yeah,” said Arya. “Even if my sister’s marrying a freak show, I want to be there for her.” She met Sansa’s eyes. “I promised.”

“Are you sure?” asked Sansa. “You’re willing to give up Scotland? You’ve been wanting to go there this whole time.”

“There’s nothin’ for us there, really. Nothin’ more important than you.” Jon kissed Sansa’s hand. “We’re family. Where you go, we go.”

Sansa saw the determination in Arya’s eyes, the compassion in Jon’s. She looked around the room. Everyone was watching them, Mayana and Olyvar, Val, Luwin, Tyrion, Shae, people who cared.

And finally, Petyr. He looked at her with love.

Sansa held her siblings’ hands and smiled.

She was happy, at long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so fuckin EMO right now  
> um. so okay this happened??? w o w  
> I made a post about this on tumblr, but for those who didn't see, I'll reiterate below:
> 
> the epilogue isn't ready yet. i just have too much to do right now with school and work and stuff (i've been working on this so much and not doing enough ACTUAL WORK for my job uhhh), and rushing it would be a total disservice to sansa and the journeys these characters have been on.  
> so, what i’m going to do is **withhold the epilogue until the final edit of the entire fic is complete,** and the book’s about to drop. then i’ll post the epilogue around the time that the book goes off for printing. so, about…eh, **2-3 weeks from now?** if i'm diligent. probably. but the main story has ended, this is it. the epilogue is just a final follow-up on how everyone's doing. it's emotional, still an important chapter if you've cared about the story at all thus far so i encourage you to stick around and read it when i finish everything. but yeah. i'm sorry, i just didn't have time to get it done before now :'(
> 
> some of you are probably asking, BOOK?? WHAT BOOK. yes, a book. for every big fic i write, i get them printed and bound in a hardcover. i didn't plan on releasing it to the readers because they're just for me, but people on tumblr saw me mention it and suddenly i have at least five different people who want a bloodguilt book. fucking crazy. so, i'm doing one final edit of the entire thing, making a cover and sending it off to a publisher. i'm hoping it'll be ready by the end of the month. :) **i'll post all the info on how you can purchase a book when i post the epilogue.** and no, i don't get any proceeds from the selling of the book; you only pay for the cost to bind and ship it (it ships worldwide!). it's an estimated $22 USD as of right now, but that could fluctuate a little bit.
> 
> thank you for sticking with me on this journey. we're not quite done yet, i _promise_ the epilogue will be worth waiting for. but for what it's worth, i really love and appreciate your devotion to the story. thank you. from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> i welcome any and all comments, criticisms, praises, whatever. you can message me on tumblr @petyrbaelish or comment below. and you can tip me via paypal: altairismyhomeboy@gmail.com (but i'm only putting this here because some of y'all INSIST on a tip, and while it isn't necessary i super appreciate it asdlgjalkg i've worked so hard on this thing lol)
> 
> WELL. Ready for one last go, guys? See you soon. xx
> 
> (oh, and for those who don't know about my next fic, i'll be posting a summary along with bloodguilt's epilogue. so if you wanna see more from me, stick around. <3)


	35. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **soundtrack choices:**   
>  [[make you feel my love; adele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4k-W6cZ2CiY)] ◆ [[die with you; beyoncé](http://petyrbaelish.tumblr.com/post/159203484543/yivialo-beyonc%C3%A9-die-with-you-2017-full)]   
> 

  
**10 SEPTEMBER, 2027**

Sansa was too restless to sleep. She’d been trying since ten, but when she looked over at the clock it was two in the morning and she hadn’t slept at all. She rubbed her eyes. Laying there was pointless. Carefully, Sansa pulled herself from her husband’s arms and crawled out of bed, slipping from the room as quietly as she could.

Sansa padded down the stairs, rubbing her aching back. She flipped on the kitchen lights to make a cup of tea. She nearly spilled the hot water from her shaking hands, so she took a deep breath to steady herself. It worked enough for her to mix milk and sugar without making a mess. Sansa walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and sipped her drink, looking out at the horizon.

The Alps never lost their beauty. Great mountains stretched in every direction, smothered in rock and grass and flecks of snow. The moon reflected off the surface of Lake Lucerne and cast a sparkling glow through the valley. She could see the buildings on the other end of The Fingers, the growing town of Petyr and Sansa's making, still asleep at this hour. Sansa tried to let the sights keep her calm.  _Just a few more hours,_ she thought. _God, I don’t know if I can do this._

Sansa felt a sudden jolt and tumble in her womb, so hard she nearly dropped her tea. “Hey,” she chuckled. “You should be sleeping.” Only five months grown, Alayne was already giving her mother grief. Sansa rubbed her belly with affection. “Maybe I’m setting a bad example.”

Someone turned off the kitchen light. Petyr entered the living room, reading her face before she said a word. She offered a smile. He didn’t fall for it, and took the tea from her hands to place it atop the piano.

Petyr moved behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. Sansa’s tension evaporated to nothing. She closed her eyes when he breathed in the smell of her hair, kissed her neck, her cheek. He held her until she was so relaxed that she could fall asleep on her feet. “You’re nervous,” he said.

Sansa just sighed.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“How can I not? I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”

“You are far too modest.” He kissed her shoulder. “Your book sold millions of copies. It was only a matter of time before this happened, and it will continue to happen.”

“That’s what worries me.” Sansa turned in Petyr’s arms. “I didn’t want to do this now. I wanted to wait until…”

“I know, my love.” He raised one hand to hold her cheek. “There will be plenty of time then, too. Consider this a trial run.”

Sansa slipped her arms around his neck and hugged him. Petyr held her just as tight. They’d agreed that she wouldn’t throw herself into full-time activism until their family had been raised, and Petyr had aged and gone. She’d use her time as a widow to travel and speak publicly when it wouldn’t cost her precious time with her family. But her autobiography’s success had made Sansa Stark a household name. Queen Myrcella’s request that Sansa speak to the United Nations was just a starting point; how much would she be expected to do now that fame had crept into the picture?

“You will be magnificent,” Petyr told her. “They will be astounded by you. They’ve all read your book, I’m sure.”

“Do you think so?”

“Mm.” Petyr pulled back to cradle her face in his hands. “And if they haven’t, fuck them. You’ll charm them anyway. Every country in the world will be begging you for your counsel.”

Sansa had to smile. Petyr never hesitated with his flattery, but she didn’t care so much about the UN’s approval just yet. She had her priorities: family first. For a long time, Sansa had thought her choice made her selfish, but she felt assured that she’d earned the right to carve her own path. “Are you going to help me take over all these countries?” Sansa teased. “You want to. Admit it.”

“Only if I’m in the mood,” said Petyr. “As you’ve pointed out, I’m getting old.”

“Not  _that_  old.”

To prove her point, Sansa leaned in and kissed him. His hands slid into her hair, massaging her scalp in the way that ignited her. Petyr opened her mouth with his tongue. It felt just as good, just as fulfilling as the first time, and it drove her just as wild.

Sansa slipped her hands under his shirt. His chest shook when he laughed. “My needy wife.”

“You started it.” She kissed him again.

“You’re going to have to be quiet if we do this now.” He grabbed her hard at the waist; there was no “if” about it. “We can’t wake the boys.”

“I can be quiet,” she protested.

“Only if I hold back.” He nibbled at her neck. “I  _never_  hold back.”

In a tangle of giggles and sighs, husband and wife fell together on the couch. Petyr kissed down Sansa’s body, paying special attention to her belly where their child was growing, before burying his face between her thighs. He pleased her with fingers and tongue before pleasing her again with the rest of him. In and out at the pace she liked. Never once in eleven years had they left each other unsatisfied, and Petyr never failed to perform. Sansa was selfishly pleased that such was true. His days of dysfunction were  _very_  far ahead of him.

Their early morning passion left them both a panting mess. Petyr lay atop his wife, still inside her, pressing kiss after kiss to the slope of her neck. “Come back to bed,” he told her. “It’s cold without you.”

Sansa couldn’t say no. She and Petyr grabbed their clothes from the floor and crept back upstairs, crawling into bed, into each other’s arms. Sansa fell quickly asleep.

It was six in the morning when she woke up again. Edmond, their eighteen-month-old, was babbling through the baby monitor. Sansa groaned. “He’s your son.”

“I got them up last time.”

“I got three hours of sleep and I’m pregnant.”

Petyr sighed in submission. He kissed the back of her head and left the room. Sansa closed her eyes again.

“You woke up your mother, you little shit,” Petyr said to Edmond. Sansa glared at the monitor.  _Really?_  “Let’s get you changed into something presentable.”

Petyr made a point to talk casually with their children, no baby talk, even when they were too young to reply. He claimed that real conversation helped infants learn how to speak faster and become more charismatic as they grew. While his reasoning made sense to Sansa, she enjoyed Petyr’s topics of choice most of all. She listened to him tell Edmond all about the sex he’d slept through and ask what color socks he wanted to wear. Edmond replied in squeals. Sansa grinned, rolled over and fell asleep once more.

She wasn’t out for long.

“Mummy,” came a soft whisper. “Mum. Mummy. Wake up.”

Sansa cracked open her eyes. Four-year-old Robb, their oldest, stood at the edge of the bed with his dimples and his glasses and dinosaur pajamas. “Papa says it’s time to get up.”

“Did he?” Sansa checked the clock: 9:03.

“Yep. C’mon! It’s your big day!”

Sansa couldn’t be irritated when Robb’s innocence shined. She touched his cheek and smiled when he did. “I don’t smell anything. Your father made breakfast, didn’t he?”

“He put waffles in the toaster.”

Sansa figured. They’d been parents for years, and Petyr still didn’t know how to cook very well. “I guess that’s better than nothing. Did you let Lady in?”

“Uh-huh. She’s—”

The door burst open. Lady, the family Husky, bounded up onto the bed and shoved her face into Sansa’s to sniff her and lick her cheek. “Lady!” Sansa laughed, playfully pushing her away. “Lady, stop!”

Robb crawled up on the bed and pulled the dog off of his mother. “Don’t crush Alayne, Lady! You’ll squish her!”

Sansa managed to crawl out of bed while Robb held the happy dog. “Lady,” she commanded. “Get down. Petyr hates it when you’re on the bed, you know better.”

Lady hopped to the ground and ran excitedly out of the room. Robb slid off of the mattress and took his mother’s hand. “You and Alayne need to eat breakfast. I’m gonna take care of everything.”

“Are you?” chuckled Sansa. Robb led her slowly down the hall, past the framed photographs of hers and Petyr’s wedding day. She spared them a happy glance.

“Papa said I couldn’t give you breakfast in bed, but I can at the table.” Robb held her hand tighter as they walked down the stairs. “Are you scared to talk in front of all the people, Mummy?”

“A little,” said Sansa. Honesty with her children was a core moral of hers. “There’s going to be so many.”

“Don’t worry. You’re gonna be really good. You’re gonna be the best speaker ever.”

Sansa pet the top of her son’s head. His mane of red curls was wild, untamed. “You’re so sweet. My sweet boy.”

Robb beamed under his mother’s praise.

When they made it to the dining room, Robb pulled out a chair for Sansa and brought her breakfast with a glass of milk. Sansa thanked him as he ran off into the living room to turn on the telly. His favorite educational program was on. Robb couldn’t remember his own birthday, but he knew the exact time and day that his favorite show aired. Typical.

Petyr walked into the room, his phone at his ear. He came to his wife for a morning kiss. “Who is that?” Sansa asked. Petyr pointed to the phone and mouthed, “Mayana.” Sansa nodded and kept eating.

“He disrespected you like that?” asked Petyr. He sat by Sansa at the table and held her hand. “Send Sandor on him. He won’t be disrespecting you again any time soon.”

Sansa gave him a look.

“What about that Tanner fellow? The one with the knives. Is he still giving you trouble?” Petyr paused for Mayana’s response. “No. Better to kill him and be done with it.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. Every other morning, Mayana would call and talk through Littlefinger-related things with Petyr. Sometimes Sansa would join them just to chat, but she didn’t feel like dealing with murder at the moment. She had other things on her mind.

“Mayana says you need to watch the Beyoncé video she sent you,” said Petyr.

Sansa laughed. “Tell her I’ll do it tonight, I promise.”

“Edmoooond,” whined Robb from the other room. “Edmond, stop, I can’t see!” The baby squealed.

“I got it,” Sansa said, waving Petyr off. “Tell Mayana I love her.”

“I will,” mouthed Petyr.

Sansa brought her dishes to the sink and walked into the living room to check on her sons. Edmond was crawling all over Robb, pulling his hair. Robb wailed in distress. Sansa put her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing, little man?”

Edmond, at the sound of his mother’s voice, sat down on the couch in an instant. A devilish smile grew on his tiny face. He was certainly his father’s son.

Sansa picked up the child,  _whoosh_ ing him in the air before sitting on the couch next to Robb. Lady curled up on the floor at her feet. Sansa snuggled with her children, so comfortable and content that she nearly fell asleep again until Petyr came into the room, still on the phone. He stroked her cheek. “I’m going to get ready.”

“Papaaaa,” Robb complained. “I can’t seeeeee.”

Sansa grinned and stroked her son’s hair. “Don’t take too long. We have to leave by eleven.”

“I know.” Petyr leaned down and gave Sansa a long, slow kiss. When he’ left the room, she could hear him giving Olyvar extensive advice about blackmailing politicians. Some things never changed.

Sansa enjoyed a peacefully quiet morning, aside from Edmond’s babbles as he played. Sansa crawled on the floor to join him while Robb watched his dinosaur show. Sansa did anything she could to keep her mind off anxiety.  _Why didn’t I decide to stay home?_  she thought.  _I don’t want to leave the boys, even for a weekend._

The doorbell rang. Robb gasped, a big, toothy beam on his face. “Mummy! She’s here!”

Sansa used the coffee table to heave herself up off the floor. Lady barked and bolted toward the front of the house. She could see Ghost through the window, and when Sansa stepped into the entryway, Lady yipped, begging her to hurry up. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Sansa unlocked the door, an eager dog and an equally eager child at her side.

Ghost burst through the door when it opened. He and Lady fell all over each other despite his old age, growling and playing in the foyer as if they were puppies.

Arya and Gendry walked into the house, side by side. “Hi, Robb!” Arya chimed. Robb was so excited to see his favorite aunt that he leapt into her open arms. Sansa greeted Gendry with a hug — he was her brother-in-law, as of three weeks past — and she embraced Jon and Val with equal love. Hugging Val was difficult, though. She was a month from her due date and pregnant with twins, and with Sansa’s pregnancy, there was barely enough room between them. They’d made it a running joke. “It’s like we’re watermelons,” Val had teased, and since then Jon had insisted on naming each twin “watermelon” in different languages.

“How are you sleeping?” Sansa asked Val as she escorted everyone into the living room. “Your back must ache something awful.”

“It’s not comfortable, no,” said Val. “Jon got me one of those big pillows from the new store in town. A body pillow, I think. It helps. But he’s sad because I stopped snuggling with him. I only want the pillow now.”

Sansa laughed. Petyr didn’t want her to use a body pillow for that exact reason, but she’d never been in enough pain to need one anyway. “Things will get easier once the babies are born.”

“Oh,” said Jon, “I doubt that very much.”

“Edmoooooond!” Arya shouted when she saw the toddler. Edmond giggled so loud that Sansa had to cover her ears. Arya scooped him up and blew raspberries on his stomach, and he squealed nonsense. Robb tugged on Jon’s sleeve to show him the dinosaur show, and after Sansa made a fresh pot of tea, the family sat down together.

The adults chatted about the days ahead while the children played. Arya and Gendry would babysit at home while Jon, Val, Sansa and Petyr attended the United Nations conference in Berlin. Val and Jon planned on mingling with politicians to promote the stabilization of Afghanistan, and Sansa would make a speech to the entire conference about sexual violence. Just talking about it made her frightened. “You should relax,” said Jon, “you’ve wanted to do this for years.” But that didn’t make the fear go away.

“I thought I heard voices.” Petyr stood in the living room archway, adjusting his patterned tie. Sansa recognized it; it was the one she’d gotten him for his 53rd birthday, nearly a year ago.  _He looks so good in business clothes._  He looked good without them, too.

“Hey Petyr,” said Arya with a wave. “I see you’re still lurking.”

“Hello, Arya. Thank you for coming. Robb has talked about nothing else other than seeing his aunt for the weekend.”

“Sure thing. It’ll be fun without you here.”

A tease. Petyr took it with grace, and reached out to his wife. “You need to get ready, sweetling. We should leave in an hour.”

Sansa didn’t mind that no one greeted Petyr with the warmth they’d received her with. Their relationship with her husband was mostly neutral, and she could count the number of times they’d actually gotten along on both hands. But there were no arguments, no snide remarks. Just mutual respect. It was good enough for Sansa.

Petyr took her hand and led her upstairs, to their bedroom. Sansa opened the door to the closet. She knew exactly what she wanted to wear: a black floor-length dress and a cardigan Petyr had bought for her the week before, with a long necklace and her favorite diamond earrings. She found the items and showed them to him. “Do you think this is good enough?” she asked. “I want to be comfortable, but I don’t want to underdress.”

Petyr leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “You could wear a plastic bag and still be the most stunning person in the room.”

Sansa smiled. “I’m not talking about beauty. I want to look nice.”

“You will, my love. You always do.” He motioned to her with his chin. “How do you want your hair?”

“I was thinking a braided bun. Do you remember how to do that?”

“With the twist on top?”

“Mhm.”

“Then yes, I remember.” Petyr was insistent on learning how to style a girl’s hair. Ever since they’d learned Alayne’s gender, he wanted to practice all sorts of designs on Sansa, so by the time their daughter was old enough he could do her hair for her. The thought gave him great pride. Sansa didn’t dare discourage him.

After she was showered, dry and dressed, Petyr took Sansa into the bathroom and sat her down. He picked up a brush from the countertop. “I know how you are about my hair,” said Sansa, “but we don’t have time right now. Don’t get any ideas.”

Petyr smirked. He took a small portion of her red hair and brushed through it gently. “You don’t think I could fuck you fast? We have plenty of practice in time-sensitive situations.”

Sansa laughed, closing her eyes and leaning back. She loved it when Petyr brushed her hair, and he always found a way to make it as erotic for her as it was for him. But she hadn’t lied; there truly wasn’t time. “I don’t want to sit on the counter right now. My back is sore and I didn’t sleep as much as I should have.”

“You’ll sleep well tonight, sweetling. The hotel we’re staying in is one of Margaery’s.”

“God, I’m looking forward to it.”

Petyr continued to brush her hair, pressing the occasional kiss to her head. He was so affectionate with her. Even when their passion was rough, fast or greedy, there was an underlying tenderness that made Sansa fall in love with him a little more every time. His kiss still felt like home.

“Knock knock,” said Arya from the doorway. “You decent?”

“Yes,” said Sansa. “No,” said Petyr. She eyed him with mischief.

Arya came into the bathroom anyway, hopping up on the counter between the two sinks. She bit into an apple and crossed one leg over the other. The sisters looked less and less related as the years passed. Ripped jeans and choppy hair contrasted Sansa considerably. “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” said Sansa. “Petyr’s practicing on my hair.”

“Alayne will be the most beautiful girl alive,” Petyr boasted. “As is her mother, and any other daughters we have.”

“And you’re gonna dote on them 24/7,” mocked Arya. “Glad I’m around to keep them sane.”

“How’s the academy going?” Sansa asked as Petyr began braiding. “I heard you’ve got over fifty students now.”

“Yeah! It’s great. I love working with kids. I show them a move and they get it right away, they’re smart. I’ve had to split up the classes though, because no way am I teaching Jujitsu to fifty kids at one time. Especially since most of them aren’t great at English.”

Sansa understood. Arya had never quite gotten the hang of Swiss German, and she was too stubborn to let Petyr give her lessons. Perhaps that was for the best.

Petyr finished Sansa’s bun with a few barrettes and a kiss on the cheek. “Good?”

“I love it,” praised Sansa, examining herself in the mirror. Petyr always had an eye for style, but others usually did the work for him. Doing things himself was something Petyr had to relearn since they’d been married. He took pleasure in it. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, my love.” Sansa turned her head and kissed him. “I’m going to bring our bags to the front door. Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.”

They kissed again. Petyr left, passing Arya without a word.

“Finally,” said Arya when he was gone.

“Be nice.” Sansa pulled out her makeup and started applying it to her cheeks. She didn’t need very much, but she wanted to look her best for the pictures people would undoubtedly take. “Ugh. Arya, I’m so nervous.”

“Why?”

“It’s just a lot to take in.” Sansa rubbed foundation on her face with a brush. “And like, I want to speak out. I always have. But I’ve gotten so many requests for interviews and things since the book was released, and I’m kind of overwhelmed.”

“Well, yeah. Duh. It was a super successful book. Did you think it wouldn’t be?”

Sansa sighed. She’d written _Break the Bars_ as a filterless retelling of her abuse from Ramsay. If she was going to tell her story, she would tell it right, no details excluded. No censorship for the light-hearted. She never expected the praise, the international attention, the respect of celebrities and politicians and religious figures, the awards. Writing the book brought more nightmares than Sansa could count, but all she’d wanted was to write a guide for victims of violence to heal by. The results were an equal curse as they were a blessing. “I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly thinking about fame when I wrote it.”

“Why not do all these interviews, though? Get the word out. Be active. I know the deal you and Petyr have, but the momentum is gonna die by the time he does.”

“No,” said Sansa, “I don’t think it will.” She set down her brush, frowning. “The more interviews I do, the more I travel, the more I’m away from my family. The children won’t be little forever and Petyr gets older every day. It’s a ticking clock at this point…”

Arya rolled her eyes. “You’re overthinking this again. You’ve got loads of time.”

“I thought that ten years ago, too,” said Sansa. “Now we’re here. His time could be halfway over and I don’t even—”

“Ugh,” groaned Arya loudly. “I love you, Sansa, and I know you’re scared. But you did this ‘what if he dies tomorrow’ stuff when you were pregnant with Edmond and Robb, too. Your gross baby daddy is healthy, especially since he quit smoking. Relax and enjoy the moment.”

Sansa couldn’t help but sigh. She and Arya butted heads, but it was her pragmatic approach that kept a dreamer like Sansa from spiraling too far. “You’re right, Arya. I think I’m just emotional.”

“When are you not?”

Sansa jokingly smacked Arya’s leg. Arya pretended to be hurt, and the two were happy again. Arya changed the topic while Sansa finished her makeup. When she was done, the sisters came downstairs to gather with Jon and Val by the front door, ready to leave. “Alright,” Sansa said to Robb. “Come give me a kiss.”

Petyr picked up their son from the ground. Robb hugged his father tight. “I don’t want you to go, Papa.”

“We’ll be back late on Monday,” said Petyr, rubbing Robb’s back. Sansa’s heart warmed at the sight. “You’ll have fun with your aunt, and you get to play with Ghost and Lady. Would you like that?”

“Mhm.”

Petyr kissed his son and moved close to Sansa. “Say goodbye to your mother.”

“Bye Mummy,” said Robb. He leaned over and hugged Sansa tight. She squeezed him as hard as she could, and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Robb. Be nice to your brother, okay?”

Petyr set Robb down. He ran off to play with the dogs. Petyr and Sansa kissed an oblivious Edmond on the cheek, left instructions for Arya and Gendry regarding the care of their children, and grabbed their bags.

Before she left, Sansa touched the _mezuzah_ in the doorway.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Sansa slept through both the train ride to Zurich and the flight to Berlin. She stayed cuddled up in Petyr’s arms as close as the seats would allow them. She could feel the vibration of his voice as he talked with Jon and Val, and it soothed her. His heartbeat and breathing patterns had become Sansa’s lullaby over the years. They reminded her he was still safe.

Petyr’s German fluency and an escort from the UN saw the family from the airport to the conference hall. Rows of long, curved desks had been placed around the room, like a senate floor. There were foreign dignitaries at every turn, seating for hundreds, journalists from dozens of countries taking pictures and asking for interviews. Sansa had learned long ago to avoid the intrusions of the press, but it was a sobering reminder of how important this speech really was.

Jon and Val were led to their seats at the eastern end of the room. They would speak at a few of the smaller panels, but Sansa would have the attention of the whole floor. She was guided to a small room down the hall to wait. Petyr entered the room with her. She was given a moment’s peace, though it didn’t feel like peace at all, not with a million things on her mind that could possibly go wrong.

Sansa wrung her hands. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

“You’re not going to vomit.” Petyr held out his arms and pulled her into an embrace. “You haven’t come this far to be thwarted by a group of old politicians.”

“I don’t know how you can be so calm.”

“What do I have to fear from these people? They can’t take you or our children away. They are small, my love, they don’t matter.”

“You’re right,” Sansa agreed. “This is why I need you.” She gave him a kiss and walked over to the hanging mirror, making sure she was still presentable. Her maternal glow dwarfed whatever makeup she’d put on, but Sansa decided that she still looked nice. She pushed back a few flyaways.

“You don’t need me,” said Petyr.

Sansa turned. Petyr looked up at her when she didn’t reply. “You don’t need me, Sansa.”

She stared at him, confused. He moved closer to her.

“You only needed me once. I gave you a place to stay after you escaped, but the rest, everything you’ve done since you met me, all of it was because of your unbreakable will.” He touched her hair and smiled proudly. “You’ll have the world’s eyes on you today. And you will be strong without me, as you always have.”

Sansa beamed despite the growing tears in her eyes. Petyr pulled her so close that she could feel his heart beat in tandem with hers. Ten years and three children meant twenty years and more, Sansa could feel it. And she was grateful, so grateful to be alive and fulfilled with family and love and peace and togetherness, just like she’d prayed for all those years ago.

“Ms. Stark?” came a call at the door. “The conference is ready.”

“Okay,” said Sansa. “I’ll be there.” She pulled away from Petyr and wiped her tears. She took a deep breath. “Do I look okay?”

“Beautiful.” He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “So beautiful.”

Sansa wiped her tears, hoping her makeup didn’t smudge. “We’re getting lemon cake after this.”

“That’s fine.” He leaned in close, mouth to her ear. “But you’ll have to wait until I’m done fucking you through the floor.”

Sansa giggled. He always knew how to make her smile ridiculous though he was. Petyr planted his lips to hers in long, slow kisses, and she felt the love on his tongue before he ever said a word. “I love you, Sansa.”

“And I love you,” she replied.

Husband and wife parted ways. Sansa was led from the room and around the main floor, behind the platform. She toyed with her wedding ring and bounced on her heels. Alayne fluttered around inside her, making her nauseous — or was that just fear? She couldn’t tell anymore.

Queen Myrcella was speaking at the podium. She greeted the conference attendees with grace and confidence, and gave a long, heartfelt introduction for Sansa. She introduced her as a woman of strength, kindness and wisdom, far more admiration than Sansa thought she deserved. With nothing to be ashamed of, Sansa walked to the center podium. She gave her dear friend a hug and blinked her eyes to adjust to the spotlight.

Every world leader was on their feet. A standing ovation. Sansa was stunned by disbelief, the sound of thunderous applause echoing throughout the room. “Thank you,” she said humbly. “Thank you so much.”

They continued on. Faces of strangers, of men and women and different nationalities, all praising her. Cheering for her. The applause was a chorus of changed lives, of lives  _she_  had changed. All because she’d had the courage to write a few words.

Sansa touched her Star and smiled. When the foreign leaders took their seats, Sansa took a deep breath, and spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3  
> wow. here we are. the end.  
> i really hope you guys enjoyed this story. it means the world to me. i feel like i've accomplished so much, like i've grown so much as a person from the beginning of this until now. a lot of tears and time went into this and i can say with confidence that i'm proud of what i've accomplished here. even if i come back in a few years and find some cringey lines, even if i learn a lot about storytelling and realize i did something wrong in hindsight, even if i stop shipping petyr and sansa in the years to come. i learned so much about myself on this journey and i wouldn't trade it for anything. this story means a lot to me. it always will. i hope it means a lot to you, too.  
> all sap aside, you can see the previous chapter's endnotes for info on how to donate to me if you'd like! there's information there on the hardcover version of bloodguilt, too. i'm nowhere near done editing it, but i didn't feel it right to withhold the epilogue from you when it could take me another month to get through the final edit and bind this thing. for those of you interested in picking up the hardcover copy, stay tuned. i'll likely post about it with my next fic.  
> ...speaking of my next fic, for those who don't know, **i'm writing a teacher/student au that will begin on sunday, june 25th.** you can read all about it [here.](http://petyrbaelish.tumblr.com/post/158336602718/shiver-shiver-release-date-june-25th-hey) keep an eye out for it if you want to see more from me! you can [follow me on tumblr](http://petyrbaelish.tumblr.com) for updates, too. maybe i'll drop a teaser before release day. ;)  
>  ah. happy sigh. i'm so glad to be able to put bloodguilt to rest, at long last.  
> as always, your feedback/reviews would be much appreciated. they'll help me grow, and i can see what elements of my storytelling are most effective and what aren't. if you could spare a few moments, i'd be super grateful. <3  
> see you on june 25th, if you're gonna read my next story! and if not, i love you! stay strong in your lives! xoxo  
> \--nat


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